


Of Knights And Thieves

by thesewingscanfly



Category: Merlin (TV), Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-03 02:00:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 102,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1727003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesewingscanfly/pseuds/thesewingscanfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Arthur is to secure a treaty with Mercia, he and his men will first have to bring a band of outlaws - lead by the infamous Robin Hood - to justice. But not all is as it seems. Enemies of the past rise to unite with new enemies, and grudges are never forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

 

Relief comes when the forest leaves filter the high noon sun, sparing the men of Camelot from further being baked within their own chainmail. It had been a quiet morning. The unrelenting heat had silenced even the most boisterous of the knights. But beneath the shelter of the trees, only soft rays of light shower down upon them now, and Gwaine is the first to find his voice. He jumps into the story of how he once became a famous town minstrel without singing a single note. Quite a feat, if he does say so himself. The others pay him no attention, of course, except for Elyan who nods politely to show he's listening. Leon presses a damp cloth to the bridge of his nose which was raw and red from the harsh summer flares. And in the back of the group, Percival sits tall in his saddle. Face tilted toward the sky and his eyes closed; either trying to rest or – more likely – trying to block out Gwaine's voice.

As always, Arthur rides ahead with Merlin lagging a few feet behind. Merlin, perfectly comfortable in his lightweight linen tunic, takes in the splendor of the surrounding woods. He has seen his fair share of forests, but there is something different about these. It boasts a certain vibrancy that the stench of his clammy comrades cannot diminish. Even the air itself is full of wonder and life.

A cool breeze rolls across their path, sending loose leaves tumbling and drawing various praises from the armor-clad men. But it only brings about confusion for Merlin. He glances up at the sun then to the shadows around them before urging his horse forward. He falls into stride beside Arthur.

“We're heading south.” Merlin attempts to keep his tone casual, but by the look he receives from Arthur, he knows he was unsuccessful.

“Merlin, I am going to assume you don't think I'm a complete idiot--”

“Well...”

“--and that you are pointing out the obvious because you have a problem with it.” Arthur uses a spare rag to wipe his face free from sweat, “Go on then, what is it?”

“What is what?” Merlin straightens his back. “You assume I have a problem. I have no problem. And certainly not with going south. In fact, I think the south has a view that is particularly lovely this time of year. That's why I was pointing it out.”

Arthur raises an eyebrow and throws the dirty cloth at Merlin, who makes a failed attempt at batting it away. The salty, damp swatch hits his face before falling into his lap. He wipes a hand over his mouth with a grimace, slumping back into his original posture, “We spent a full day riding north, and now that we're heading south it just seems like we may be--”

“Backtracking?” Arthur offers. “We're not. I wanted to enter Nottingham from the north so that we might be able to see a good amount of Sherwood Forest on the way.” He nods his head to the trees around them.

“You...wanted to take the scenic route,” Merlin nods, pretending to understand. He looks back to exchange amused glances with the knights, who are now listening. He smiles, “Becoming more in touch with your sensitive side, are you?”

“Shut up, Merlin.”

“No, it's refreshing. Appreciating nature's beauty...”

“Merlin,” Arthur warns.

“Embrace it, sire. This is a rare side of you we don't get to see very often. You know, maybe we could stop by the daisy fields on the way home.” He jerks a thumb in its direction. “I hear they're in full bloom right now.”

Arthur laughs, but it is not a comforting laugh. Not to Merlin. No, it is one to be followed with retribution, and that is always an unnerving prospect. He turns to Merlin, “You know, sometimes I think it is better to keep you uninformed about our expeditions. _Maybe then he won't spoil anything_ , I think. _How could he?_ _All he has to do is follow along._ But then you, being you, always manage to find a way. Questioning me on this or on that, challenging my decisions, suspecting I haven't thought everything through, the list goes on...”

“Does it?” Merlin adjusts his grip on the reins, glancing back at the knights this time with growing nerves.

“...thinking the worst, finding something to complain about, belittling my manhood. All because you don't know the plan.” The king snaps his fingers. Pointing at Merlin, his voice raising in pitch, “And assuming I would want to go frolic in daisies with you!”

“I never said we had to _frolic_ \--”

“Would you like the truth of it all?”

“I always prefer the truth, yes.”

“There are bandits in these woods,” says Arthur, his eyes fixed on Merlin with a notable spark of mischief. Merlin can feel the blood drain from his cheeks, which his master must have noticed because a small grin of satisfaction forms on Arthur's lips. The forest around them suddenly holds an all new interest, or more accurately a threat, that Merlin must inspect. He scans the nearby landscape, but with hundreds of trees, there is no telling what all hides amongst them.

“Ah, that's better. I do love the sound of your silence.” Arthur holds up a hand to signal his men to stop. He turns his horse to face them. “There is more to this peace treaty than a mere signature. The Steward, Lord Vaisey, has called on me for help. Bandits have been terrorizing the land ever since Bayard's death. Endangering travelers, stealing countless fortunes, aiding in the escape of captured criminals. These thieves are not to be taken lightly. They are lead by a notorious villain of a name not yet revealed to me.”

“Robin Hood,” Gwaine says immediately. All eyes turn to him. There is a moment of silence and Arthur cocks his head ever-so-slightly upon hearing the name, his eyes distant as if searching for something that isn't there. Gwaine must take the king's look as one of disapproval because he raises his hands in innocence. “We had a pint together once. Nothing binding.”

Arthur shakes his head, though Merlin suspects it is not to dismiss Gwaine, but rather rid himself of a particular thought. “I should hope not. Because we are to bring... _Hood_ and his men to justice.” Arthur points to the trees. “Keep an eye out. Let us see what we are up against.” He guides his horse back around to continue south, calling over his shoulder. “There is a stream not far ahead. We will stop to replenish our water supply!”

With a furrowed brow, Merlin catches up to Arthur, “Do you know that name? Robin Hood?”

“I can't say I do.”

“Because when Gwaine said his name, you had a look like--”

“It's nothing. I was mistaken.”

* * *

The horses bow their heads to drink from the shallow water that trickles over the stones of the riverbed. Alongside them are their riders, stooped down, dousing their faces and quenching their own thirsts. It is only another hour until they're upon the gates of Nottingham now, so the men do their best to make themselves presentable; some working more diligently on that matter than others. Not far off, Merlin sits on a boulder, working a bit of mud out of Arthur's red cloak and attempting to dry it in a beam of sunlight.

“Do you suppose they'll have a feast waiting for us?” Elyan asks with more longing than curiosity. Sir Percival dries his face before standing to stretch his legs.

“They had better if they know what's good for them.”

“Ah, you forget!” Gwaine says, reclining back on the grassy bank. “We always have Merlin, the master chef, to come to our aid.” He flashes Merlin a cheeky grin.

Merlin, lost in his thoughts, is made aware of the knights laughing at his expense. He lifts his head to join in their mirth, smiling a bit too broadly for it to be sincere, “Oh, absolutely! I know how much you gentlemen love to chomp on the hide of a nice fat rat.”

“Well, we know Percival here does,” Leon says, patting his friend on the back.

Elyan nods, “The man needs his protein.”

“I have never had rat in my life!”

Gwaine is not fussed by the prospect, “I'm sure we all have at one time or another.”

As the knights argue about who has or has not eaten rat in their life – though Merlin knows for a fact that they all have, multiple times, amongst other things best left unsaid – Merlin gathers Arthur's cape in his arms. He hikes back up the small bank toward where Arthur stands with his horse, repacking some of their provisions.

“I think I got out the last of it,” he helps to fasten the cloak around Arthur's neck. Arthur inspects the fabric, looking to see where the stain once was.

“You have all the makings to be a fine housewife someday, Merlin.” He smiles, giving him a hardy clap on the shoulder before turning to adjust the straps on his saddle. Merlin winces at the force of Arthur's appreciation.

“I already feel like one,” he mutters beneath his breath.

“Come again?”

“I'm glad you're pleased, sire.”

“Let us hope Lord Vaisey is as well,” Arthur slips his gloves back on. “There is a lot riding on this. Giving even the slightest impression of being some unkempt child could weaken my credibility as a competent ally.”

Even as he speaks, Merlin can see by the way Arthur's brow is knit tightly together and how he endlessly fidgets with his suit of armor that the young King of Camelot is nervous. “May I ask you a question?”

Arthur freezes in the middle of tightening a buckle, his face contorting. “Since when do you ask for permission? On anything?”

“It's just...” Merlin glances over his shoulder at the knights before lowering his voice, “Why does this duty have to fall upon you?”

“You really haven't a clue what it means to be king, do you?”

“Something doesn't feel right. Mercia is a proud kingdom, surely they would prefer to catch Robin Hood and his men on their own. Especially if he is a man decent enough to sit down and share a drink with Gwaine?”

Arthur raises an eyebrow at that, “I would not base a man's merit on his drinking history with Gwaine.” He gives a smile. But Merlin doesn't.

“A king should not have to risk his life to show he is worthy of being an ally. Shouldn't Camelot's legacy speak for itself?”

“I don't expect you to understand. With Bayard gone, our treaty is null. I have to prove my worth to Lord Vaisey if he is to sign a new pact. And if that means bringing down a group of bandits, then so be it. I have faced far worse. And so have you.” He grips Merlin's shoulder.

“You're certain this has nothing to do with Gwen?”

The sudden shift in conversation causes Arthur to retract his hand as though it had been placed on hot coals. “It has to do with peace, Merlin.” His face is hard as stone, and a bitterness has fallen onto the edges of his words. “The well-being of my people. Nothing more. We have a strong army capable of vanquishing our foes, yes, but at what price? My soldiers are my responsibility too and they deserve just as much protection if I can give it. I cannot single-handedly defeat Essetir or Odin's men...or Mercia, for that matter,” he motions towards Nottingham, “but I can bring peace. I can give them that. I can give them a little more security along our borders, and one less enemy to worry over. You should have more faith in me by now.”

“You have all of my faith.” Merlin shakes his head, “But your men are here to serve you. To ensure _your_ safety. The knights could have come on their own. They represent you and all that you are. You are already making a difference in every corner of Albion with the knights as your hands. You didn't need to come here yourself.”

Arthur paces away, “Did you hear _nothing_ I just said?”

“I hear you,” Merlin keeps his tone quiet for the sake of privacy, “but I also see you. Everyday, as it were. Staying to the training fields or the throne room. Avoiding the halls where she would walk by or the courtyard where you would see her fetching a fresh pail of water. You don't even like to be in your chambers. It was a place you two were supposed to share.” Arthur says nothing, keeping his gaze off into the woods. Only the muscles tightening in his jaw give tell that he is hanging on Merlin's every word. The castle had become a prison of painful memories for the king; a place where his father, Uther, died, and where the woman he loved betrayed him with another man. Even now, almost a year later, as Arthur dines with Agravaine, Merlin sees the way he casts his gaze over the dining hall. Looking for her. For Gwen. Who was always there, ready to fill his empty glass in more ways than one. The walls of the castle had become a vice, pinching in and suffocating him.

“You didn't come to prove yourself,” Merlin continues. “You came to _free_ yourself...even if only for a little while. But you must think about this, Arthur. If Robin Hood is as dangerous as they say, think of all that you're risking for a momentary reprieve...your life, the life of Camelot, and all that you've--”

“Merlin, please,” Arthur's voice turns sober. He's back. The expressionless form he takes on when consumed with pain, the shell that seems to be alive, but shows no vigor. He walks briskly to his horse and mounts. “We make for Nottingham!” As the knights hurry to gather themselves, Arthur casts his eyes down at Merlin. “I know you mean well, but speak of this again and you will sorely regret it.” He urges his horse onward, putting distance between himself and the others.

Red fabric whips around Merlin as the knights take off after their king, their capes spilling out behind them. When Gwaine passes, however, he slows to give Merlin's downcast cheek a friendly pat.

“No need to fear. I won't let the bandits get you.” He takes a thoughtful pause. “Then again, it's said Robin Hood never misses his target. Not much I can do for that I'm afraid, so let's just hope he doesn't go painting a bullseye on your back, eh?” With a wink Gwaine is in hot pursuit of the others, leaving Merlin to himself.

The young dragonlord cannot help but see that his destiny grows more difficult when matters of the heart come into play. He will have to make certain that in freeing and proving himself, Arthur isn't also successful in getting himself killed.

The crack of splintering wood fills the air. Merlin spins around. A lone twig tumbles from a nearby tree and lands at the base of the trunk. Any thought of Arthur's plight with Gwen has turned to the task at hand. He surveys the branches suspended above him, afraid of what he might find. Eventually dismissing it as paranoia, Merlin reaches blindly behind him for his horse, grabbing the horn of the saddle and mounting as quickly as he can.

Another twig breaks. He leans down to spur his horse on, “R _eáchtáil ag luas mór!_ ” His vision flashes gold and they take off at great speed down the path. Throwing one last glance over his shoulder, Merlin sees a nondescript figure jump down to the forest floor, landing in a crouch. Straightening his posture, the sun's rays backlight the man, revealing something in his hand. A bow.

* * *

Cheerful is not the word one would use to describe Nottingham. The towering, though weary walls are more of a deterrent than an enticement; as if they are attempting to repress something toxic from spreading, not protect something precious that lies within. It stops Merlin and the knights in their tracks. They sometimes forget how fortunate they are to call Camelot their home, but it is times like this, when the air seems heavier and the dirt darker, that they remember.

There are no friendly faces at the gates to greet them; no one is there to meet them at all, leaving Arthur and his men to navigate themselves through the congested market towards the castle that rests at the rear of the city. People mill about, but very few speak. Instead of voices filling the streets, geese honk and gabble from their pens outside of the poulterer's shop, the butcher's cleaver echoes with every slaughter, doors slam, horses' hooves clack, but there is little merriment. No laughter or spirited conversation. Not even the ruckus of a nearby tavern can be detected. A beggar, coughing harshly, falls into step beside Arthur's horse. His trembling hand caresses the fine leather of Arthur's boot.

“Move along, sir,” Gwaine crowds the man with his horse, causing him to scurry away. Others take the man's place, sauntering closer and hovering near the group. The behavior is peculiar to Merlin until he admits that even he sometimes hopes to seek refuge beneath the shadow of a great oak.

“Sire, if you'll allow us...” Leon nods to Elyan to take the lead with him, protecting Arthur from the front, while Percival and Gwaine follow behind with Merlin. Arthur gives no response. He does not even seem to realize the six of them have become a spectacle, their bright red cloaks drawing the eyes of many. He is too busy taking in the sights and the faces of the citizens, blackened with grime and creased with despair, displaying the hard times that have fallen on Nottingham and, perhaps, all of Mercia. He waves at a few of the onlookers, and Merlin is pleased when they return his king's gesture with a smile.

A shrill cry pierces through the sky, painting it red with the setting sun. It sends people cowering into the nearest storefront or doorway and chills down Merlin's spine. The scream continues, and this time it is clear where it is coming from. Arthur breaks formation, riding hastily through the now vacant streets toward the castle.

“Arthur!” Merlin calls after him, though he knows it is in vain. He sets his horse off after him, the knights following close behind.

* * *

The gates to the castle courtyard are open, but the entrance is blocked by the masses of people surrounding the gallows that stand erect at the square's center and looms high above them. Arthur dismounts his horse, leading it closer. Over the heads of the crowd, Arthur can see a man stands trial beneath a slack noose, while his wife claws at the guard who attempts to tame her.

“Please!” She cries, struggling against the guard's strong grasp. “It was a gift! A gift! Please! It was given to him! He has done nothing wrong!”

At the top of the castle stairs is a throne being occupied by whom Arthur can only assume is the steward, Lord Vaisey. He is a graying man, with more hair on his chin than his head, and a golden tooth that reflects the sunlight when he grins. At his right hand, stands a tall and severe-looking man, all in black; his arms are crossed over his chest, and his eyes remain fixed on the woman, though they divert from time to time to a young lady standing by his side. They are backed by at least a dozens soldiers, also in black, and standing at attention. Arthur presses through the crowd to get a closer look.

“Tell me, do tell me,” the steward says calmly, his posture slumped against the back of the throne, “if I were to accept a gift from Lucifer himself, would I still be a righteous man?” Without a beat to spare, flecks of spit fly from the corners of his mouth, “No!” He springs forward in his seat, his palms slamming down on the arms of the throne. The vein in his temple beats visibly, his face flushing maroon. “No!”

Arthur furrows his brow. This man, a steward of ill-manners and a quick temper, is all that stands between him and achieving peace with Mercia. It is quickly becoming clear that this will not be an ally easily gained. He feels a pair of eyes on him, and notices the man in black looking directly at him from his position up front. The man turns away from the crowd to address Vaisey in private. As the steward listens to the man, Arthur can see Vaisey slowly gaining control again, and his eyes begin searching. For him.

“Arthur!” Merlin grabs his shoulder, appearing beside him, and Arthur glances back to see the knights have joined him as well, all with their horses in tow. “What is this?” Merlin strains to see the source of the cries they heard.

“A terrible start,” Arthur mutters to keep others from hearing.

The steward of Mercia stands, a smile suddenly plastered on his face. He throws out his arms in a grand gesture, causing the man in black to duck and spare his nose from harm, “Ladies and gentlemen! A brief intermission is in order! It has come to my attention that our guests have arrived!” Lord Vaisey initiates a round of applause, which the man in black reluctantly joins in on, giving two claps before crossing his arms once more. “All the way from the shining kingdom of Camelot: King Arthur and his knights!”

The entire courtyard turns their focus to the men in red, who smile politely, giving nods of appreciation. Arthur steps forward to address the steward, attempting to maintain his pleasant demeanor amidst an execution, for which a woman still grieves.

“My apologies. It seems we arrived at a time of great inconvenience.”

“Oh pish-posh! Out with the old, in with the new!” Vaisey throws a hand toward the man at the gallows then another toward Arthur. “Not the most joyous of welcomes I admit,” Vaisey takes a look around. “But festive nonetheless, don't you agree? Come, Your Majesty! Join us on the stairs.” He snaps his fingers. “Gisbourne!”

The man dressed in black motions to a few of his men, “Take their horses to the stables, get them fed!” The soldiers, once still as statues, break into motion, descending the stairs and approaching the men of Camelot. Arthur hands the reins over before going to meet the steward properly. He walks across the courtyard, the spectators dipping into bows as he passes them by. Distracted by their admiration, Arthur does not notice Lord Vaisey, who is not handling the people's show of respect quite as gladly. He is still smiling broadly, but it looks as if his jaw might shatter if he clenches his teeth any tighter. Arthur offers a few more nods to the onlookers.

Ascending the stairs, he clasps the steward's arm in greeting, “Your people show great consideration. I am honored by their reception.”

“Yes, yes, as I had hoped you would be.” While the steward goes on to boast about his people, a feminine whisper comes from beside Gisbourne.

“This is King Arthur?”

He smirks down at the young lady, “Not so impressive in person, is he?”

Arthur is too busy trying to look engaged at what Lord Vaisey is saying to take note of the offense directed his way. When the steward suddenly stops talking and his brow furrows, Arthur exchanges an uncertain glance with Merlin.

“My Lord?”

“I am overcome with the strange sensation that I am forgetting something. What is it?” He squints as he looks to the sky, snapping his fingers repeatedly. “What is it? What _is_ it?” He hits Gisbourne's chest in frustration.

Gisbourne lets out a breath, “My lord...”

“Oh yes, that's right” He points to the man waiting at the gallows. “Hang him.” Smiling at Camelot's king, his gold tooth gleams once again. “Come inside.” He turns on his heels to lead the way.

But finding her strength once more, the woeful woman lurches from the guards' grasp, running up the stairs and knocking Merlin off his feet to get to Arthur. Percival catches her around the waist before she can do anything but grab the hem of Arthur's cape.

“Please!” she gasps, “Help us! Have mercy!”

Bewildered, Arthur quickly checks on Merlin, who is being helped up by Elyan and the young lady, before turning his attention to the woman, “I'm sorry, but your steward has spoken. There is nothing I can do.”

“You are King Arthur!” She says. “Your reputation precedes you, and I have heard of your mercy. I see it in your eyes! I see the compassion. Even now. Will you not help us? Will you not save his life from such an injustice?”

“You think you would find favor beneath the reign of King Arthur?” Vaisey appears at Arthur's shoulder, his venomous tone causing the hair on the back of the king's neck to stand up. “That he is more noble and just than I am?”

The air among them becomes thick, making the tension known to the knights, who hover closely beside Arthur, their hands resting casually on the hilts of their swords.

“She's desperate,” Arthur says, hoping to offer reason. “That's all. If she sees an ounce of hope anywhere, she will cling to it.”

“Hope,” Lord Vaisey nods, taking a step down to be closer to the woman. He grabs her chin, “Shall we seek a second opinion on your husband's behalf?” The woman lets out a sob of relief as she nods. He curls a lip, “Very well then.”

Arthur opens his mouth to speak, but only shuts it, his lips pressing together in a slight grimace. There is not an outcome he can see where both the man walks away with his life _and_ Camelot walks away with a peace treaty. Lord Vaisey paces in front of the people, his hands clasped behind his back.

“This will be quick,” he says. “I assure you all of that. Go on, tell the king what happened.”

“You are the governing voice here,” Arthur insists. “This is not necessary.”

“Oh, come come,” Vaisey grins. “Where is your sense of fun, hmm?”

The woman fiddles with the bit of fabric from Arthur's cloak she still holds in her hands, her eyes refusing to meet anyone's. Arthur rubs his forehead before finally motioning for Percival to release her. He pulls his cloak free from her grip and rests his hands on her shoulders.

“What is your name?”

“Catraine.”

“And your husband's?”

Her lip quivers at the very thought of him, “Brom, sire.” She finally plucks up enough courage to meet his gaze, though she cannot hold it for long. “We, our family, was starving. Taxes were collected just a few days ago, we had no money left for food. But we awoke this morning to that basket on our doorstep.” She points down the stairs to where a basket, frayed and smashed, lays with fresh produce and baked goods littered around it. “My husband was the one to discover it. He brought it into the house. That's it. Nothing more.”

“Blah-dee-blah-dee-blah,” Lord Vaisey says with a tired drawl. “You leave out the most important detail, my sweet. Yes, tell King Arthur the name of the man behind the gift.”

“It was...it was Robin Hood, sire.”

“There. You see?” Vaisey leans in close to the woman's face, sniffing like a dog. “She reeks of treason. Luckily! I am chivalrous, and have generously allowed her neck to be spared.”

Arthur releases the woman, hesitating before deciding to speak, “Forgive me, my lord, but the only thing I see is a family in need of nourishment. I do not think they had malicious intent.”

“If it is nourishment they desire, they can _buy_ it!”

“With what money!?” The young lady elbows her way out from behind the men.

“Marian,” Gisbourne grabs her arm, but she wrenches it loose to stand beside Arthur, who studies her intently as she talks.

“Any money they have is going to your taxes.” Her strong voice and resolute demeanor, the kindness in her eyes that cannot be overshadowed by her anger, and the curls around her face that shake as her temper grows...it all strikes at a memory he can't quite grasp. “You're forcing them to seek the help you should be providing from other people. You cannot punish them for that.”

“My dear, you may want to control that tongue before I cut it out.” He pouts, “It would be a shame though, wouldn't it? I know Gisbourne would not approve.”

Gisbourne grabs her more firmly, pulling her back by his side.

“Lord Vaisey, perhaps a warning would be sufficient to handle this minor offense,” suggests Arthur. “They show remorse for what they...” He trails off when Lord Vaisey begins wagging a finger.

“Hmm, no, I have a better idea,” he says. “I am going to ask you a question. Just one, little, tiny question. But your answer to that question shall serve as his charge, and he will receive the sentence attached to that charge. Are we in agreement?”

“I...” Arthur hesitates, glancing to a few of the people around him. He hopes to find encouragement from Merlin, but only finds the all too familiar panic being taken out on the lip that he is biting down on. It is the face of Catraine that spurs him on, her eyes wide with hopeful expectation and waiting with bated breath for his answer.

He reluctantly gives Vaisey a nod, “If that would please you.”

“Excellent!” Lord Vaisey claps his hands together. Percival, gently takes Catraine's arm, pulling her away to give the two men more space. “In Camelot,” Vaisey begins, “I hear you have a nuisance of your own there.”

Arthur nods, “A few, you could say.”

“A sorceress by the name of...oh, what is it? _Lady Morgana_! Yes, that's it.” Arthur's body stiffens at her name, bringing a small grin to Vaisey's lips. “You knew her quite well then, as I should hope, she did grow up in the palace with you. Almost like a sister, you would say. Lovely girl. Truly.” The king offers no words on the matter, so Vaisey continues, “Then...something happened, as it always does, and things changed, as they always do. She has developed a certain hatred for you. Well, loathes you, actually. Aw...your own sister. There is not a kingdom in Albion who isn't aware of that. And she felt the same towards your father, though he's no problem to her now, of course. Pity.”

Arthur swallows hard, feeling his cheeks begin to burn, but he settles into a wider stance, keeping his eyes fixed on Vaisey, who delights in going on, “An accomplishment on her part, I imagine. I am sure it is not easy to penetrate the walls of Camelot, but she managed it, though I hear she often uses other people to do her bidding. Hmm, I do wonder where she finds these people, so willing to risk their lives and make an attack against you. Another betrayal that surely stings, and rightfully so. If I am being honest, how you manage to trust anyone is beyond me.” His grin widens after Arthur's gaze lowers to the ground in contemplation and his posture weakens. Arthur feels movement behind him as Merlin steps forward to speak, but the strong hand of Leon stops him from causing any further trouble.

Vaisey gives pause to Merlin before stepping in closer to Arthur, tilting his head back to see into the face of the king, “Rumor has it, it has become her daily goal to kill you, Arthur Pendragon. To bring down your kingdom and sit upon the throne herself. To wipe away all that your father has done to create a peaceful and prosperous Camelot, and all that you are currently doing to further improve it, to make the sacrifices you have both made stand for nothing, so that it may be torn down and rebuilt to reflect her values, her power.” Lord Vaisey shakes his head, pretending not to notice the heavy rise and fall of Arthur's chest as the words begin to take effect.

“It is a threat,” Vaisey says, “that must bare down heavily on your young shoulders. If you do not stop her, not only will you lose your own life, but the lives of your people, your knights, of everyone you love; they will all fall under her reign. Into a life of enslavement, if not death. And yet here you are, you continue to endure this encroaching shadow of terror. Every day, watching over your shoulder, wondering if today is the day she strikes again, and if you can even withstand another attack. Wondering if today will be the day that you fail as king. All because of this one woman. This one infallible enemy.”

Arthur shows no shame, raising his eyes to meet Vaisey's, and though they brim with tears, he does not allow a single one to shed, “And the question, my lord steward?”

“If Lady Morgana were to bestow a gift of, oh I don't know, _food_ perhaps to one of the citizens of Camelot. And they received her gift gladly. Open arms. Without any hesitation.” He steps right up to Arthur, raising his eyebrows, “Without any thought of you. Or Camelot. Aw...and you found out. With one word, just one little word...tell us, what would you charge them with?”

There is nowhere Arthur can look to find an answer that would spare this man's life, but he casts his gaze over the waiting crowd anyway. All of these people who have heard of his benevolence, and willingness to pass grace instead of judgment, how would they look upon him if he allowed the only word currently on his tongue to slip and sentence this man to death?

Merlin's soft voice breaks through his muddled thoughts, “He's manipulating you, Arthur, do--”

“I am helping you to see reason!” Lord Vaisey spits, in a poor attempt to contain his anger. “If you or I allow those consorting with our enemies to go freely, we will lose everything we have worked for! And our enemies will only gain one more foot in the door. Is that what you want?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then we need to promote _loyalty_!” The steward turns to his people and points at Brom. “That man has betrayed me. He has befriended one who would ruin Nottingham if he had the chance! And in doing so he has proclaimed where his allegiance truly lies! Therefore, I find you guilty of--” he flourishes a hand towards Arthur, prompting him to give his one word answer.

“Of...” Arthur shakes his head ruefully, “Treason.”

A shrill cry escapes Catraine as her legs give out beneath her, collapsing into Percival's arms, which easily catch her before she hits the harshness of the brick steps. Lord Vaisey smiles.

“You heard the king,” he shrugs innocently. “Hang him!” The crowd erupts in a flurry of voices, some crying out for Brom, others yelling against the steward, and still others shout to express their outrage over Arthur's uncharacteristic proclamation against the downtrodden.

The noose is tightened around Brom's neck, and a guard prepares to disengage the floor beneath him. Arthur cannot bring himself to watch. He tries to divert his attention from the fated man, from the disappointed faces of those around him, when he notices someone on top of the courtyard walls. Squinting against the setting sun, he sees the figure draw back on his bow, but does not have enough time to even let out a yell of warning.

The arrow strikes the gallows, shredding the rope that held Brom's noose, drawing out more screams from the spectators. The archer fixes his bow over a rope tether, jumping from the wall and flying down to the gallows. Nottingham's soldiers launch into action, while Gisbourne tries to wrangle Marian inside and out of harm's way. The steward cowers behind Gisbourne until he can reach the safety of the castle doorway.

“It's Hood! Shut the gates!” He yells, only his head poking out from behind the door now. “Shut the bloody gates! Find him! Kill him! _Kill him_!”

A handful of men leap out of the crowd, bearing arms. The people quickly shy back, desperate to get away lest they become collateral damage, but it is too late. The gates leading out of the courtyard have already been sealed. As the knights of Camelot draw their swords, Arthur shoves Merlin down behind the back of the throne, pointing sternly at him.

“Stay out of sight!” He races down the stairs before Merlin can even respond. The first outlaw he comes across is enthusiastic, albeit a little petite with a bandana covering his ginger head.

“We are Robin Hood!” He pumps his fist into the air, turning just in time to realize he is being charged at by the King of Camelot. Letting out a yell of surprise, he brings up his blade to block the oncoming assault. He twists their blades free and swings at Arthur who jumps back. The tip of the small man's blade only manages to cut the fabric of Arthur's tunic. Arthur swings high. It's blocked. His opponent kicks him roughly in the gut, sending him stumbling back. As he tries to regain his footing, the small man takes a swing at him. Grabbing the man's arm, Arthur thrusts him around, throwing him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him as he lands on his back. He strikes down at him, but the small man blocks again using both hands on the hilt of his sword. Arthur, seeing the grimace on the small man's face and feeling the waver in his arm, presses harder against him, knowing he will soon give. His opponent huffs and puffs as he tries to push him away, but to no avail, Arthur is much too big for him. The man's wild eyes shift from Arthur to just over Arthur's shoulder; a smile of relief comes to his face.

Another man comes up behind Arthur, choking him with a giant rod as he pins him back against his chest by his neck. Arthur sputters for air. He can tell by the meaty, hairy arms holding the rod that this new opponent is not quite as small. He may even be a challenge for Percival. Still close enough to reach, Arthur kicks the smaller man in the gut and into a Nottingham soldier, who keeps him occupied. The rod presses harder against his throat and it is all Arthur can do to keep breathing. He thrusts the hilt of his sword into his opponent's ribs, drawing out a pain-filled grunt that only seems to give the man more vitality.

“Arthur!” Merlin's voice is distant, though not distant enough to insure he has stayed out of harm's way, but it is not something that Arthur can allow himself to be distracted by.

With a loud crack, Arthur is suddenly able to draw breath as the rod snaps in half right where his throat had been. He shoves himself away from the man's chest, spinning around to face his opponent. The large bear of a man stands in awe, looking dumbfounded by the broken pieces of staff in his hands. Arthur, coughing in an attempt to regain his breath, is just as impressed. He was certain his neck would break before the likes of a rod that thick would.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Merlin sprint past him and into the crowd. He whirls around in an attempt to grab the loose back of his jacket, but the growl of the bear draws his focus back to the task at hand.

“Merlin!” Arthur calls out angrily before turning to block one of the splintered halves of the rod. He uses his forearm to block the other half that swings at him. “Bloody fool,” he mutters to himself, knowing Merlin was no warrior, and likely to get himself killed.

“I know a few of those,” the man says gruffly before using all of his might to shove Arthur flat on his back. Arthur rolls over to avoid being struck, then rolls the opposite direction to spare himself once more. When he looks to his opponent, he notices that something is pulling his attention to the front gates.

“Well, it's time for me to go,” the bear-like man tosses the broken pieces of rod to the ground.

Arthur furrows his brow, never hearing a more ridiculous statement in the middle of a fight. He swings his blade at the man, who catches the arm wielding his sword with one hand and punching him violently in the face with the other. Casually stepping over Arthur, he makes for the castle gates.

After getting himself reoriented, Arthur scrambles to his feet to see what is going on. In front of the closed gate stands, who Arthur can only assume, is Robin Hood. Beside him are his men, along with Catraine and Brom. But most alarming is who Robin holds hostage with a knife to his throat: Merlin.

“Raise the gates!” Robin demands. His eyes are fixed on Lord Vaisey, who has reemerged along with Marian. “Let us and these two innocent people go, or this boy dies.”

The steward lets out a boisterous laugh, “Of all the people here, you choose a _servant_ to hold at ransom?” His laugh suddenly ceases. “Um, no. Go ahead and kill him.”

“No!” Arthur shouts, holding a steady hand out to Robin, “Let him go.” He turns his head to address the steward. “Just let them go. Let them have one last victory. We'll put everything right in the end. I promise you.”

Lord Vaisey curls a lip, “He's just a grubby servant boy.”

“I'm here to prove my worth to you as an ally,” Arthur says. “The least you can do is lend me your faith in return by sparing my manservant and trusting that I will do as I promised.”

He sighs dramatically, waving a hand towards the gatekeepers “Oh, alright. Spare the poor boy. Raise the gates! But he is your problem now, my dear King.”

Arthur slips his sword back into his sheath, approaching Robin and Merlin. The gate clicks as it starts lifting behind them.

“Your men are good fighters, they will prove to be a challenge,” Robin grins, a glint of arrogance in his eyes. Arthur says nothing, only looks to Merlin, making certain the skin on his neck has not been broken by Robin's blade. “Don't worry. He is unscathed.”

“Robin, let's go,” the bear of a man slips through the opening beneath the gate with the others.

Waiting until everyone has made it out safely, Robin shoves Merlin into Arthur with a broad smile, “It's nice to see you again, Wart.”

 


	2. Chapter Two

 

No, it couldn't have been. Not here. She wouldn't dare. Still raven hair spilled out from beneath the woman's hood, green eyes shone from within its shadow. Not a soul seemed to notice her as she glided, with unabashed confidence, through the panicked crowd, her eyes fixed on only one person from which they did not waver: Arthur Pendragon. Rather than approach him, she stayed within the cover of the masses. Observing. Prowling.

Crouched behind the throne, Merlin could not get a proper look at the woman to confirm his suspicions of her identity. But the pounding of his heart and aching of his temples, where the magnitude of her power pressed in, tormenting his senses, was enough for him. He abandoned his king's orders, and thankfully so, as it seemed he would no longer have a king if he had waited a minute longer. Arthur was being choked by what appeared to be a giant of mythological proportions.

“Arthur!” Merlin yelled. He took a deep breath and whispered, “ _Brise_ _á_ _dh_ _ì_ _leath_.” The rod bearing down into Arthur's neck snapped in half, freeing him from the man's hold and allowing him to breath again, but Merlin could not spare anymore time. He ran down the stairs and into the crowd, barely aware of his friend calling his name. All of his concentration was on the faces of those around him. Where was she? He could still feel her presence there, in his mind, pushing in on him. But she was nowhere to be found. Closing his eyes, he tried his best to focus in on her. Yes. She was still there. Whipping his head to the right, he saw her. Across the courtyard. But her face remained concealed.

He began to push his way through the crowd, determined to find out once and for all whether this was the woman he feared it was, and if it was, then exposing her now, in front of everyone, would leave no room for doubt among the naysayers. He barely managed two more steps before a strong arm grabbed Merlin from behind, and pressed a knife to his throat--

 

“No!” Merlin shouts as he is forced to turn around. He blinks. He is no longer standing in the courtyard, at the mercy of a bandit, but in Nottingham's banquet hall, full of people laughing and feasting. A wide-eyed Gwaine stares up at him from his seat.

“I was only going to ask for a refill, mate.” It's then that Merlin realizes he is holding a pitcher of wine in his hands. He leans over the table to replenish Gwaine's cup. “Had a few too many to drink, eh, Merlin?”

Still trying to recover from the scene that has been plaguing him all evening, Merlin wipes the sweat from his brow and sputters for words, “Y-yeah, that must be it.”

“Don't worry,” says Percival, who sits beside Gwaine. “We spotted a tavern on our way in earlier. A few trips with us, and you'll be able to handle your drink in no time.”

“Or at least handle it better than Arthur,” Elyan jests from across the table where he begins filling his plate with second helpings. He reaches for the last drumstick of the turkey, but Gwaine snatches it before he can get to it.

“Anyone can hold their drink better than the king,” he says with a victorious grin, biting into his winnings. A round of laughter erupts from the knights, drawing the attention of others, including Arthur, who frowns as his friends hold up their glasses to him or, in Gwaine's case, a turkey leg with flesh hanging off of its bone.

Merlin manages a smile, his anxieties beginning to ease. When he scans the room, he does not see signs of despair, which was so prevalent amongst the faces out in the square earlier today, instead he sees cheerful grins and rosy cheeks, all overflowing in excited chatter. Even the air seems lighter, like a window has been opened to allow the fresh breeze in after a season of breathing stale musk. The cloaked woman is nowhere in sight, nor can Merlin feel her presence, only enhancing the freshness of the evening. In fact, the only women in the banquet hall seem to be the wives and daughters of the noblemen in attendance. Many of their eyes linger on the men of Camelot, and Merlin can see by the swagger in his friends' mannerisms that they are loving every moment of it.

His only concern is seated directly beside Arthur: Lord Vaisey and his cohort, Sir Guy. There is something about them that does not rest well with Merlin's nerves. Perhaps it is the way that the steward baited Arthur, daring him to rise up against him for the sake of Brom's life, or the way that he, at the same time, knew Arthur's most deep-rooted fears and used them to extract the outcome he desired most, only to flash a cold smile as if unaware of his cruelty towards his guest. Even now, Lord Vaisey speaks jovially with Arthur. But there is something dead in his eyes, and Merlin wishes he could rip the mask from his face to reveal his true intentions.

Quite the opposite is Sir Guy, who seems incapable of putting on an amiable front. Since they arrived, he has only offered a brief greeting to Arthur and nothing more, keeping his distance and barely looking in Arthur's direction when he is speaking. Merlin has to admit that while his king is not always the most genial, it is rare for him to receive such little regard. It makes Merlin wonder if perhaps there isn't more going on beneath Sir Guy's brooding surface, diverting his attention from their visitors to something more demanding of his time.

“My fine people!” Lord Vaisey begins loudly. As he stands, the ruckus of conversation slowly dwindles, and guests dine in silence to give him their full attention. “Now that our stomachs are full and thirsts quenched, allow me to boast about our guest of honor! I have already introduced him to the city as King Arthur of Camelot, but never did I expect to witness his legendary bravery so soon upon his arrival. While bringing a traitor to justice, Robin Hood, the thorn in my side, the demon on Nottingham's shoulder, attacked the good people of this city! But did our dear guests shy away? Hmm?” He rests a firm hand down on Arthur's shoulder. “No! They sprung into action! Scaring Hood and his men off and sparing the lives of dozens!”

Merlin scrunches his face, not entirely sure that is how it happened, but joins in on the round of applause given in the knights' honor.

“I am certain,” the steward continues, “that what we will find in these men will not only be loyal allies to last our kingdom through the ages, but fierce warriors and noble saviors. I do. I truly believe that. After the passing of our dear, precious King Bayard, did we not struggle to maintain our footing amidst our loss? Did we not put everything we had into establishing a safe home in which to eagerly anticipate the new King of Mercia's coming of age? Aw...poor little Leofrick. A child who has never known his mother, and is now without a father. Such a pity. Given the time, we all know he will grow to be a great king, but Robin Hood would have this kingdom fall to depravity and ruin before that time can come! For everyone to become criminals, murdering and stealing! I cannot allow this to happen. No, I _will_ not allow this to happen!” He pauses to gather himself, as if he is on the verge of tears. Sir Guy grimaces at the display and hides his face in his goblet, finishing off what Merlin is sure to be at least his fifth glass of wine.

Lord Vaisey takes a deep breath, squeezing Arthur's shoulder, “And that is why, dear friends, I have called upon the most capable to clear our homes of these bandit vermin. I know they will restore order to our kingdom, and above all, they will restore our hope.” Another round of applause fills the room, and Arthur stands, his stature towering over that of the petite Lord Vaisey at his side.

“Allow me to first express my sincere appreciation for the honor we have been given to serve you all in this fashion,” Merlin smiles at the formality in Arthur's tone. No matter how much time has passed, he can never seem to get used to it. This is the same man who can only converse in grunts upon first being woken up in the morning, and who will endlessly debate the true definition of a dollophead. But there is never a speech that goes by, no matter how foreign Arthur might sound, where Merlin does not feel the blossom of pride throughout in his chest.

“We have heard of your plights and seen your struggles first hand,” says Arthur, “But we do not come selflessly. We have come to fight and we will fight for you. We will fight for justice. More than that, however, we will fight for a brighter future. For Camelot and Mercia alike. Where King Leofrick can grow in the security that his destiny as a great leader awaits him, and where the alliance between our two kingdoms holds firm for centuries to come. Let us hold to hope.” Arthur raises his goblet. The room mirrors his action and they all drink in unison, letting the sentiment of his words linger in the air. Arthur sets his cup roughly down onto the tabletop, “The bandits had better sleep well tonight for they will find no peace from us once the dawn breaks!”

The roar of cheers and jeers fill the hall, erupting all at once then rippling out into separate, though equally enthused conversations amongst the banqueters. Arthur motions for Merlin as he sits back down, beckoning him to his side.

“Are you sure another drink is a smart choice, sire? You'll be getting up especially early tomorrow and you've already had _one_ glass.”

“Shut up, Merlin.” He stops Merlin from refilling his goblet, “That's not why I wanted you.”

“Oh. Why did you then?”

“I noticed you had a bit of a hard time out in the square earlier this evening.”

The two men stare at each other, Arthur refusing to expand upon his meaning and Merlin struggling to process his point. Merlin's eyebrows finally shoot up, “And you're worried about me?”

“Don't be stupid,” says Arthur. “It's just, amidst settling in and preparing for the feast, I was never able to--”

“See if I was all right?”

“--see if you were fit to ride with us tomorrow.” Arthur lifts a finger, “Don't put words in my mouth, Merlin.”

“Yes, I'd say I am fit, sire, thank you for your concern.”

“I was _not_ con--”

“Ah!” Lord Vaisey suddenly stands again. “Here is our king!”

Merlin and Arthur, along with everyone else, turn their attention up to the balcony overlooking the great hall. Coming through the main doors, flanked by several maids, is Lady Marian, who holds the hand of a young boy, his stature barely visible over the railing, but between the spindles the bright, unmistakable blue of Mercia can clearly be seen coloring his cape. All those in attendance rise to their feet as the king and his entourage descends down the stairs. Leofrick holds on tightly to Marian's hand, carefully taking each step one-by-one and looking around the room with wide eyes. Merlin glances to his side to see Arthur's reaction to a king far younger than even himself, but Arthur is not looking at Leofrick, his eyes are on the young boy's handler.

“There was much excitement when he learned of your arrival, your majesty,” Lord Vaisey sits down to resume his dessert.

“Oh. Yes, I am eager to meet him.”

Just down the table, Marian stops Leofrick so that he can introduce himself to the knights, but he hides behind the skirt of her gown, only poking his head out to gawk up at their size.

“This is Percival,” says Sir Leon. “He might look scary, but...” He stoops down and lowers his voice as if to share a secret, “that's because his ancestors were from a tribe of gentle giants. Massive folk, but they wouldn't hurt a fly.” Leofrick smiles at that, his dimples pinching deep into both cheeks. He doesn't say anything in response, rather shifts his eyes over to Arthur.

“Merlin,” Arthur whispers urgently, “I don't know how to talk to children...”

“Just speak to him like I speak to you, sire.”

There is no time for him to hear Arthur scold him. The feeling returns. As if he is standing in a dark hallway and a door at the end cracks open, allowing light to creep in his direction, its magnitude growing with every second. She's here. Or at least someone who possesses a potency of magic, that is undeniable. He cannot help but remember that _she_ has shape-shifted before, and he would not put it past her to do it again. The maids accompanying King Leofrick look innocent enough, one elderly and plump with rosy cheeks, and the other small and fragile with a gaze that does not leave the safety of the floor in front of her, but it must be one of them. It has to be.

Merlin finally snaps to attention when he hears Arthur clear his voice, and he realizes that he is blocking Leofrick and Marian from Arthur, “Oh! Sorry.”

“What on earth is wrong with you?” Arthur mutters as Merlin moves aside. “You'll have to excuse him. He's just so excited to be here, it seems he's lost count of his drinks.”

“I think that is a common problem,” says Marian, casting a glance over the different banquet tables, the guests who occupy them becoming louder with every passing moment. Her eyes come back to rest on Arthur, and the two of them hold one anothers' gaze with such comfort, Merlin is certain he has missed something, though he has hardly left Arthur's side since they arrived.

Arthur finally turns his attention to Leofrick, “And this must be the beloved king I hear so much about.” He stoops down, and Leofrick slowly edges out from behind Marian.

“You heard of me?”

“Oh yes, your strength is the talk of Camelot.” Arthur sticks his hand out to the small king, “Why don't you show me just how strong you are?” After checking with Marian, Leofrick runs forward, his small blue cloak flapping behind him, and grabs Arthur's hand, shaking it vigorously with both of his. “The legends hold true! You will surely be the strongest man in all of Albion one day.”

“I hear tales of your adventures every night 'fore bed.”

“Do you?” asks Arthur. The little boy nods, and looks at Marian, as if asking her to be his witness. Arthur smiles up at her, “Are you the storyteller?”

“We've read through his books so many times,” she says as if needing to make an excuse for herself. “He wanted something new, and word of your journeys are always coming through here.”

“My favorite is when you snucked into the fairy castle and saved those boys from the evil fairy lady!” says Leofrick, bouncing in place with excitement. “And you fought her griffin all by yourself!”

“Very few people know that story,” he throws a pointed glance Marian's way before scooping the little king up in his arms and standing to stretch his legs. A blush rises on Marian's cheeks, but she sets her jaw to help herself maintain her poise.

Merlin struggles with all his might to connect the dots he knows are there, but he often forgets that Arthur had a life all his own before Merlin came to Camelot, full of stories he's never heard, and people he's never met.

“Why do you like that one?” Arthur asks.

Leofrick grazes the fresh bruise on Arthur's cheekbone with his fingertips like he has found an ancient relic proving all he's heard is true, “You were little, like me.”

“That was the first beast I ever slayed.”

Marian smooths the front of her skirt, “He has so few men in his life...I think he just enjoys having a hero to aspire to. Especially one that started so young.”

Arthur's smile grows as he holds his chin up a bit higher, “I'm flattered you find me--”

“I would not cling to praise yet,” Marian takes Leofrick into her own arms, using the close proximity to lower her voice and speak her mind without threat of being scolded. “Adoration from afar can go untarnished for years, but in close quarters the illusion can be broken in a single moment. I suggest you take special care to keep the pedestal he has you on intact.”

Arthur can only nod, and Merlin bites back a laugh. He has not seen Arthur properly scolded since the days of King Uther.

Her voice turns cheery, “Say goodnight, my king, we must get you to bed.”

Leofrick, who has gotten distracted by the knights struggling to divide the last of the dessert between them, returns his attention to Marian, “But we've just come!”

“You should have already been asleep by now, but you promised you only wanted to say a quick 'hello', isn't that what you said?”

Leofrick sighs, “Yes, but--”

“You know, it seems things are becoming rather dull around here anyway,” says Arthur. “Don't you agree, Merlin?” He has to do a double-take when he sees that Merlin is not going along with anything, but genuinely yawning.

Merlin nods as he tries to finish it out. “Yes, sire.”

“See?” Arthur looks at Leofrick, whose head now rests on Marian's shoulder. “I think I'll be going to bed shortly too.”

Marian smiles in appreciation then nudges the boy in her arms, “What do you say?”

“Goodnight, your majesty.”

“To you? It's just Arthur.” Arthur gives a small bow, “Goodnight, King Leofrick.”

“To you?” he mimics with a wave of his hand, “It's just Leo.”

Arthur offers another bow, lifting his eyes to the boy's caretaker, “Marian...”

She barely gives him a nod him before turning to leave with the maids following close behind. Merlin watches them, hoping for some slip in character that will help him to determine one of them as the source of these feelings he's having; a glint in their eye, a twitch of the mouth, a malfunction in the disguise, anything. But he finds nothing. The entire hall fills with voices as the guests cast their best wishes for a peaceful night's rest and pleasant dreams to their departing king. Arthur leans over to Merlin, watching Marian go.

“I can't quite decide whether she _lectured_ me or _threatened_ me.”

“She spoke with such familiarity,” Merlin says, “Who is she?”

“As a child, my father would bring me with him whenever he came to visit Bayard,” Arthur turns to face Merlin once the doors have closed behind the entourage, the room deflating as the magic goes with them. “She is his niece, not by blood, but he valued her just the same.” His face falls as he looks away from Merlin. “We were inseparable.”

“You've never spoken of her before...what happened?”

“It was all my fault,” Arthur shakes his head. “If you have learned nothing else about me over these past few years, Merlin, you should have at least come to realize that I am poison.”

Merlin furrows his brow, his stomach churning at such self-deprecating talk that he has never heard him speak before. “That's not true...”

“Yes, it is.” Arthur laughs, but there is no humor in it, “The people in my life never last. My mother, my father, Marian, Morgana, Lancelot...” He trails off, resuming his place at the banquet table and Merlin knows the one additional name he cannot bring himself to say.

“I am still here, sire, and I always will be,” as he says the words, he catches a glimpse of Sir Guy discretely leaving the hall out of the corner of his eye. Who is he going after? One thing Merlin can always count on is for Morgana to never work alone, and who better to find an ally in than the disgruntled right-hand man of Lord Vaisey? It occurs to him that Arthur is talking to him.

“--but I know I don't say it often.”

Merlin stares at him a moment, unsure of how to ease out of the conversation. “I have to go,” Merlin sets the pitcher hastily down on the table, causing some wine to slosh out onto the table.

“Go _where_?” Arthur recoils to avoid being splashed.

“To...clean your room. Obviously. Can't have a proper night's sleep with... _stuff_...all over the place, can we?”

“We just got here, how messy can it be?”

Merlin laughs, “Oh, sire, if only you knew the power of your own uncleanliness.”

“Merlin!”

He slaps Arthur's back. “Take your time, sire. Enjoy yourself.” When Arthur can only stare at him with a deeply knit brow, Merlin takes it as his cue to leave before he can command him to do otherwise. He flashes a smile before hurrying up the stairs, two at a time, hoping to catch a sign of which way Guy might be heading.

Stopping just outside, he turns in a circle to evaluate the different paths, eventually noticing the two guards that are watching him. Merlin offers a small wave, but they don't respond.

“Just...trying to remember the way...” Merlin scratches the back of his head and clears his throat to cover anything the guards might hear, whispering under his breath, “ _Leanúint ar chonair_.” A path of glowing footprints materialize from the brick floors of the hall, leading down the eastern hallway. He wastes no time in following after them.

Winding through the corridors, Merlin begins to wonder if he will ever catch up to him when he hears a pair of voices talking in urgent whispers. He knows they are just ahead and to the right, where the footprints round a corner. Creeping closer, Merlin can see their shadows being cast over the floor and up the wall by the flickering sconces. One figure is tall and lean, the other, petite and feminine.

“Please, Sir Guy,” the voice is soft, but not pleading. The voice belongs to Marian.

The distinct, deep hum of Gisbourne's voice follows, “I may be willing to talk to the steward, but perhaps you should have thought twice before challenging him in front of an audience.”

“I had to. It needed to be said and, as a guest, Arthur may not have--”

“Arthur?” Guy interrupts. “Already on a first name basis, are you?”

“His majesty, King Arthur,” she corrects herself with an edge of annoyance, “may not have realized the struggles of the people here.”

Merlin inches silently forward, wanting to get closer still. A mirror on the wall catches their reflection, and he can see a smirk forming on Guy's lips.

“There is a lot the young king doesn't realize, Marian.”

Marian steps back against the wall, putting more distance between the two of them, “Why must you mock him?”

Guy rests a hand on the wall beside her, his other hand planting itself on his hip, “Why must you defend him? He is nothing but a boy playing soldier, surely you see his immaturity. The steward barely had to lift a finger to bend the king's will to his own.”

Enraptured in their dialogue, Merlin nearly forgets he stands in the middle of an open hallway. He glances behind to insure no one has spotted him and threatens to give his position away, but when he returns his attention to the mirror, Marian is already looking back at him. Merlin feels his blood run cold. Guy turns to see what has caught Marian's attention, but she tugs on his lapel to keep his focus.

“If you have so little regard for him, why bother with a treaty at all?” She straightens the collar of his jacket. “It seems cruel to use him.”

He runs a hand down her arm, “You think I don't know what you're doing, Marian? You can try to keep me talking all you like, but your punishment will not be forgotten. There is only so much I can say in your defense.”

“And will you say it?”

“Yes, of course,” he says. “But you must start showing some restraint.”

“Thank you, Guy. Now really, I must be getting on. Leofrick is waiting inside.”

As the conversation comes to a close, Merlin slowly backs away from the corner, not overly thrilled at the idea of being caught eavesdropping by a man of such severity. Once he is clear of the mirror's reflection, he turns and hurries back down the hall, all the while, a single sentence spoken by Sir Guy repeats itself over in his mind: _There is a lot the young king doesn't realize_.

* * *

Inside his chambers, Arthur leans on the large oak table, pouring over a map of Sherwood Forest. Whether the size of it is more daunting on paper or in person is difficult to say, all he knows is that finding a handful of bandits within its cover will prove to be a herculean task at the very least. The wind picks up, knocking the open shutters against the wall, and drawing Arthur's attention out the window. He hopes the coming rain clouds will blow over and preserve any tracks Robin Hood and his men might have left during their escape earlier today.

Today. The very thought of all that has transpired in the past twelve hours is enough to draw out a sigh from the king. He packs up his plans, along with any thoughts on tomorrow, before moving behind his changing screen to prepare for bed. As he is finishing up, he hears the door open and close, and the shuffle of familiar footsteps bustling around the room like a mouse frantically scavenging before the cat turns up.

Arthur comes out from behind the screen, furrowing his brow when he sees Merlin setting a pile of linens on the divan situated in the corner of the room.

“Merlin.”

With much satisfaction, Arthur watches as Merlin spins around so fast, he's surprised the boy doesn't take flight, “Sire!” He fidgets with the blanket in his hands. “I didn't know you were back.”

“Clearly,” Arthur walks towards Merlin, inspecting the pillow and sheets behind him. “You know, Merlin, you might not think so, but I can be an understanding person. I realize that everyone has their own issues to deal with, personal conflicts to tend to. But when something arises and you need to run off, rather than lying to my face, you could try...oh I don't know...being honest. That doesn't mean I need, and frankly I don't _want_ , the details, but even the vague truth is better than a lie.”

Merlin raises his eyebrows, “You...won't be curious? Ask questions?”

“No, because I am not a girl, Merlin. Your gossip doesn't intrigue me.”

“Not even a little? I could be hiding a secret so riveting it would blow your pants off.”

“I know you better than anyone,” he sets a hand on Merlin's shoulder, “so I can rest easy knowing that you are as boring as they come.”

“Boring...well, that's a bit harsh, don't you think?”

“Mundane, stodgy, prosaic. Any of those suit your fancy better?”

“I don't know, does pompous ass suit yours?”

“By the way,” says Arthur, glancing at the divan before heading towards his bed, “if you think you're sleeping in here, you had better think again.” He climbs beneath his covers.

Merlin starts to snuff out the lights in the room, “No, of course not, I would never think that. And why would I? I mean, I would never want to sleep in the same room as you, I suffer enough of your snoring when we're traveling. Can't catch a wink with you around. I just wanted to make sure you had sufficient bedding, that's all.”

“Merlin?”

“Yes, sire?”

“Shut up.”

The room grows darker as Merlin extinguishes more of the sconces, leaving only the moon's glow, filtered by the storm clouds, to illuminate the room. When he's finished, he puts the douter away before tip-toeing across the floor and silently slipping his boots off.

Arthur squints one eye open upon hearing him rustle about, watching his silhouette as he settles down onto the chaise lounge, “What are you doing?”

“I'm just checking these linens for bugs,” Merlin whispers. “Can never be too careful.”

“You have your own bed,” says Arthur in his full voice. “In your own room.”

Merlin does not respond at first and Arthur cannot make out Merlin's form any more, it fades into the darkness of the divan. Finally he can be heard from the shadows, “I don't like that they placed the knights in a different hall than you. And you have _Nottingham_ guards outside your door.”

“You don't trust them.”

“Not with your life, no.”

Arthur sighs, he has always struggled with being able to scold Merlin for his genuine concern, and is too tired to bother arguing, “If I hear one peep out of you...” He settles into his pillow, allowing his body to relax for the first time in days. While traveling, not only is the ground uncomfortable to sleep on, but there is the constant threat of danger arriving at any time, in any form. Every twig snapping or leaf crunching beneath the weight of something would be a cause for alarm, but here, as silence takes holds of the room, he finds himself giving into sleep's hold quite easily.

“Why did Robin Hood call you _Wart_?” Merlin suddenly asks, shattering the placidity of the night. “It's an odd nickname, isn't it? I mean, I think I have a few of those on my feet, but I wouldn't name someone after them.”

“Merlin...” Arthur groans.

“Do you know him? Like you know Marian?”

Arthur grabs a pillow and thrusts it across the room at Merlin before shoving his head beneath a second pillow to muffle any further attempts he might have at conversation. There, protected from anymore distractions, Arthur feels his limbs become heavy and his mind starts to drift between the stresses of reality and the beauty of the fantasy world; from the swaying ropes of the gallows to the fresh lapping waves of the seaside, the clanging of metal against metal to the bird's song floating in the summer breeze, the crooked grin studded with gold to the soft lips that curve in a gentle smile...that smile which brought more joy to his soul than he knew he was ever capable of, but is now only a memory. He can keep himself from saying her name, but he cannot keep her from walking his dreams.

* * *

With a jolt, Arthur wakes. He cannot tell what time it is from underneath the pillow that stills lays securely over his head, or what it is that has jarred him from his slumber, but the lethargy lingering in his bones tells him there is still much sleep to be had. A loud thump sounds as his bed gives another jolt, and he knows there is only one to blame for this.

“ _Merlin_ ,” Arthur growls, ripping the pillow off his head and rolling over onto his back. Above him, a flaming arrow sticks into the post of his bed nearest the open window, and beside him, pinning the mound of blankets to the mattress is another, the fire quickly spreading. He throws off the covers, scrambling out of bed so fast he nearly loses his footing, “Merlin!”

The arrow lodged into the bed frame must have been the first to hit, its flame already consuming the overhead canopy. Arthur shakes Merlin roughly until he begins to rouse.

“Get up!” He yanks Merlin to his feet, who, as the situation at hand is realized, grabs the basin from the side table and splashes it onto the bed, deterring the raging flames very little. Arthur knocks the bowl from his hands and shoves him towards the door. “It's going to take more than that!”

Merlin grabs onto the door handle, struggling against it, but it will not open, “Arthur!”

Arthur moves to take his place, but suddenly flattens against the door as another arrow goes whizzing by, just barley missing them, and sticking itself into the wardrobe. Checking for signs of anymore coming, he sees the coast is clear, and steps back to yank on the handle, but it doesn't budge. There is no use trying to kick it open, he thinks, they would not have the leverage they needed unless they were on the outside. Beside him, he hears Merlin whispering to himself. And if it's a prayer he spouts so feverishly, Arthur hopes he includes him in it.

Behind them, the fire swells, its heat radiating out from the bed and melting them like wax, drenching them in seconds as their bodies perspire in a futile attempt to keep them cool. It will not take long for them to be cooked, and Arthur's desperation grows. He beats against the door, kicking, pounding, wrenching, but it is unyielding.

“Something is barricading the door!” Arthur says over the rush of the flames. He runs to the second window, which is closed, and flings open the shutters, careful to stay out of sight in case another archer has his bow fixed on it. A billow of smoke floods out the new opening, enveloping Arthur, and sending him into a fit of coughs, but he does not let it debilitate him. He waves a hand in front of the window, and when no arrows are shot, he quickly leans out the window, checking to see how far the drop is to the ground below, which turns out to be too far to jump, or if there might be a balcony to climb out onto, but there is nothing within reach. He sucks in a deep breath of fresh air before pulling himself back inside.

“Merlin!” The room is now filled with dense black fog, making it difficult to distinguish anything but the occasional fleeting shadow when the smoke shifts and thins momentarily. One such shadow lies in a heap against the base of the door, and only the sounds of a hacking cough lets Arthur know his friend is still conscience. He gets down on the floor, where the air doesn't seem so stifling, and crawls his way across the room, starting to rely on his sense of hearing above his sight as the intensity of the smoke and soot burn his eyes and send tears rushing down his face.

His hand reaches out, searching blindly, until it latches onto Merlin's boney arm, hauling him away from the door and dragging him toward the open window where they might be able to salvage themselves a few more minutes of life. The floor has become hot with the heat of the growing fire, its traction slick against Arthur's clawing and sweaty hand, the air around them heavy and dry, burning their throats as they try to gulp in any bit of oxygen they can, only to expel it immediately in a fit of coughs that rack their entire bodies. His head starts to swim, and his limbs struggle to lift themselves against their own cumbersome weight, making him wonder if death really does emulate falling asleep to a certain degree. He readjusts to situate an arm securely around Merlin's torso and continues to drag him along as he inches his way towards the window. He will not let Merlin die this way.

He hears Merlin say something, and though he is right next to him, Arthur cannot make out the words he is trying to get out between gasps. His voice sounds distant, pleading, despairing, and as possibly his last words, Arthur wishes with all his might he could understand them.

Without warning, a violent rush of wind stirs the room, ash and dust striking Arthur's face as it swirls around them. He shifts to lie over top of Merlin who has suddenly stopped coughing, his body going still along with it, shielding him from the onslaught. The tempest howls, blowing more forcefully, but the air that lashes at Arthur's bare back is no longer laced with the sweltering heat that licked at their bodies like whips, instead it is refreshing and cool, sending a wave of relief over him and filling his lungs with new life. He coughs, choking on his own desperation for pure air.

Then, as quickly as it rose, the wind falls still; flames no longer crackling, smoke no longer assaulting his lungs. The room is as fresh as a cool, spring morning.

“Merlin?” Arthur whispers hoarsely. He cups his friend's face, but still cannot see him, his bleary eyes only burning and flooding with more tears when he tries to open them. He pats his cheek repeatedly with a trembling hand, but gets no response. A sour taste forms in his mouth, his stomach rolling, “Merlin, say something.”

In the stillness, he can hear voices out in the hallway and the rattling of the door handle.

“My Lord!?” Sir Leon yells through the door, followed by a few loud knocks. “Arthur, are you in there!? Can you hear me!?”

The dryness in his throat threatens to silence him, but he pushes his voice out with as much force as he can muster, “Y-yes!”

“Are you clear of the door!?”

“Yes!” He barely gets the word out before a loud crash echoes through the chamber, accented with splintering wood, and the rush of multiple sets of footsteps filtering in. A strong pair of hands ease him away from Merlin.

“Sire?” Percival says, “Are you alright?”

Arthur squirms in his grasp, the inability to see almost too much to bear, “Merlin...is he...?”

“He's alive for now,” Gwaine says, “but he needs attention.” Something stirs beside him, and as much as Arthur would like to believe it is Merlin waking up, he knows it is more likely that Gwaine is lifting him off the ground. He tries to keep his eyes open to see for certain, but only blurry images waver in front of him. Percival's hands grab Arthur's face to keep him looking forward.

“Can you see me, Arthur?”

“No...sometimes...”

“Let me see him,” Marian's voice appears beside him, the scent of lavender and pine following after her. Her petite hands replace Percival's, and she uses her thumb to force one of Arthur's eyes wide open, drawing out a cry of pain from the king. He knocks her hands away, squeezing his eyes shut. “Sir Elyan, can you fetch me a pitcher of water? We will need to flush his eyes.”

“Is Merlin still here?” Arthur asks.

“Gwaine took him to the infirmary,” Leon says, his voice lofty, probably standing over them. “Rest assured that we are doing everything we can to figure out what happened, sire. Sir Guy is outside checking the perimeter with his men as we speak.”

“I know what happened. No one needs to tell me,” says Arthur, the blood in his veins hot, not a result of the fire's blaze, but from the swelling resolve in his gut. “Robin Hood tried to kill me.”


	3. Chapter Three

 

The sun has not yet broken through the dark veil of early morning, leaving the duty of illuminating the throne room to a few hastily lit sconces. Camelot's knights, lacking their usual pristine grooming stand in yesterday's wrinkled clothes, most likely snatched off the ground on their way out the door at first word of the fire, their hair unkempt, and faces grim, surrounding their king, whose sight has returned though his eyes remain bloodshot. Arthur keeps his gaze on Lord Vaisey, the only other person in the room. The white-haired man sags in his seat and rubs his tired eyes.

“I should have known Hood would try to pull something. To thwart my efforts and steal my victory,” he says. “Luckily for me, Pendragons do not die so easily.”

“Luckily for us all,” Gwaine corrects him.

The steward dismisses him with a wave of his hand, clearly in no mood for sentiment. Behind the knights, a large wooden door groans on its hinges as it opens and Sir Guy strides through with a battered man in tow.

“Ah, Gisbourne!” Lord Vaisey sits taller. “I was hoping you wouldn't prove to be a disappointment. I've learned not to hold my breath, but here you are. Come with a present, have you? I do love when you surprise me. Who is he?”

“One of Hood's men,” Guy shoves the man to his knees in front of the throne. “Found him skulking around the bailey. His escape route must have been compromised.”

Arthur studies the man, walking around in front of him; crouched on all fours like a cowering dog, the bandit's hands tremble against the floor, covered in dirt that seeps beneath his nails and smeared with bits of blood that traces across his knuckles. The man keeps his head bowed, but Arthur can hear the faintest whimper lacing his staggered breaths. Arthur's brow knits together at the display. He had expected Robin Hood's merry men to show a stronger sense of fortitude, as they had in the courtyard only last evening. “Are you certain?”

Guy's face darkens, “I would not have brought him before you if I wasn't, but perhaps you know better. What are my years of involvement to your majesty's expansive experience of several hours?” The two men lock eyes, neither one eager to be the first to secede.

The steward whistles, “Gisbourne...down, boy, down.”

“I meant no offense,” Arthur says, his tone unable to soften against his irritation. “But this man lacks the bearings of the men we met yesterday.”

“Of course, he does,” says Guy. “The scarcity of his arrogance and agility is exactly why we were able to catch him. Now that he is abandoned by Hood and lying beneath our boot, his pride has no room to stand.” Guy jams his foot into the man's rib, pushing him over with a quick jerk of his leg.

Arthur moves back around the bandit's body, herding Gisbourne away from him, “No matter what his affiliation, he is a man and deserving of some respect.”

Guy does not back down easily, but rather stands his ground despite Arthur's close proximity, holding his head high to take full advantage of his height, “You forget he would have you dead.”

“I forget nothing,” says Arthur, “but his coming judgment will serve as sufficient penance.”

The two do not break eye contact, looking at one another long and hard, before Guy finally takes a small step back, “As you wish, your majesty.”

Arthur nods his thanks and turns to the man lying on the floor, “On your feet.” As the man slowly pushes himself off the ground, and struggles to find his footing, the knights all draw their swords, keeping the tips pointed at their prisoner. There will be no more mishaps this morning.

“A pathetic specimen, isn't he?” Lord Vaisey muses from his seat.

“What is your name?” Arthur asks, resting his hands on his hips. When he receives no response, he steps in closer to capture the man's wandering attention, “The more you cooperate, the easier this will be. So I ask again, what is your name?”

The man's eyes flicker from Arthur, to Sir Guy behind him, then back, “Robin Hood.”

Arthur sighs, he should know better than to expect a smooth interrogation, but the events of the night weigh down on his tired shoulders. “We all know that's not true.”

“It is,” the man insists. “Robin Hood is he, and Robin Hood is us all.”

The steward laughs, a hardy laugh, “Now if that doesn't sound like the premise to a frightful nightmare...”

“Sire,” Sir Leon steps forward. “Perhaps it would be best to delegate the inquiry to someone else so that you can go seek out further rest.”

It never ceases to amaze Arthur the perceptive nature Leon possesses. He is the one that has stood by Arthur's side the longest of the knights, and he's sure even the smallest slump in his shoulders or sag in his stance gives tell of his fatigue.

“You will be of no use if you are deprived of energy,” he continues.

Arthur nods, “A change of plans then. Sir Leon, you and the others, along with Sir Guy if he is willing to volunteer his aid,” he breaks from his instructions to get Guy's response, which is a simple bow of his head, “will question this man about the location of the outlaws' camp and any other information you think might be pertinent.” He switches his focus to single out one of the knights, “Gwaine, meet me in the courtyard this afternoon. No armor. We'll see if we can't sniff out some signs of Hood's activity in nearby villages.”

“You're sure you don't want all of us to accompany you?” Percival asks.

“We are not looking for a fight,” says Arthur. “The fewer of us there are, the less likely it is that we will be detected.”

“Incognito...” Lord Vaisey thinks. “Gisbourne, why didn't you ever think to try that? It seems to be a fairly basic tactic. Throw a bit a pink into your wardrobe and he'd never suspect it to be you.”

“I don't recall your lordship ever suggesting it.”

“Yes, well, I suppose it would take a little more effort to camouflage a gangly, beaked thing like you.” Sir Guy says nothing to that, but instead moves to secure the prisoner in his grasp, preparing to escort him back to the cells.

“My Lord Steward,” Arthur says, stepping around Guy and the bandit to give a bow, “I thank you for your quick response to the situation earlier, and I apologize for interrupting your night.”

“I have doubled my guard, and I do hope you find the new location of your chambers to be a bit more secure so that you may rest easy.”

“I'm sure I will, thank you.”

Sir Guy drags the prisoner back through the ground level doors with the knights in tow, except for Elyan who falls into step beside his king.

“Elyan,” Arthur glances at him. “Is something wrong?”

“No, sire.”

“I know interrogating a man isn't exactly your preferred way to pass the time, but I'm afraid if I let you lie down with me the others will think I show favoritism.”

Elyan laughs, “I just thought, given the circumstances, you might find better sleep if you knew a Camelot knight watches your door.” Those words bring a small smile to Arthur's face and he pats Elyan's back before heading up the stairs with him.

* * *

The halls are still dark and coated in crispness, as if the morning dew has slipped through the cracks of the windows and chilled the air. It is clear much of the castle is still asleep, unaware of the mayhem that plagued the northeast wing earlier, but as the two men round a corner, they see a single door is propped open its light flooding across the hallway and up the wall on the other side. Elyan does not slow his pace as they approach it, but Arthur does, and then he stops.

Inside, he can see either side of the room is lined with beds of white linen and separated by wooden end tables, all adorned with various bottles holding liquids of different tinctures, presumably brought from the store cabinets at the end of the room to accommodate each individual's needs. There are only three people in there right now; a woman propped up almost into a sitting position, though it is clear she is fast asleep, a man who has bled through and stained a portion of the sheet at his chest, which a few nurses pull up to cover his face, and a young man lying flat on his back, still as ice and as pale as a winter's haze. Merlin.

A presence comes to stand beside Arthur, and he knows it is Elyan. He doesn't say anything and Arthur doesn't want him to. Instead, they both look in at their friend, stationary on the outside, but fighting desperately to return to them on the inside – or so he hopes.

After several minutes, Elyan's voice breaks the silence, “Arthur...”

The informality makes Arthur turn to look at him and he is met with a pair of eyes identical to the ones that once brought him so much comfort in the past; deep pools, dark as night, but with the warmth of a thousand suns.

“You need to get some sleep.”

Arthur nods, but gives Merlin one last look, hoping that in that instant he will wake and soothe all worries, but instead he remains unchanged. Abandoning the doorway, Arthur continues to his chambers, which he finds is smaller than the last room he was given, but is contained entirely within the protection of the castle, leaving him without windows, and with any luck, without threat. Elyan remains in the hallway as Arthur disappears into the blackness of the unlit room before him.

* * *

That afternoon, the day seems brighter to Arthur as he prepares his horse to ride out with Gwaine, no thanks to the sun which has decided to stay concealed behind the grey storm clouds that spit every now and then, but rather because of the little extra time in bed and the large meal that now satisfies his stomach. He was able to wash the last of the soot from his body before reclaiming the much needed sleep he had lost, all without the worry of a flaming arrow penetrating his room. The lack of windows in his new chambers is both a comfort to him and dispiriting. He never likes the feeling of being closed in, preferring the open air and daylight.

“Merlin would be proud,” Marian says as she walks up to stroke the nose of his horse. “Did you dress all by yourself?”

“I'm a king, not a fool.”

“Unfortunately, those two qualities aren't always mutually exclusive.”

Arthur laughs, “What's unfortunate is how often that's true. Perhaps you should tell me if I have been successful in my attempts at it.”

“Well, conveniently, that's what I've come to find out...” She lifts the hood of her cloak to cover her brown curls, the raindrops falling more steadily down upon the courtyard, and drifts closer to him, petting the mane of his steed as she approaches. There is something in her manner, the way she hides under the cover of the woolen fabric or glances around with cautious eyes amidst her nonchalance, that makes Arthur think there is more to this encounter than a friendly jest.

“Is something the matter?”

She smiles, but it appears more ironic than genuine, “I'm afraid we don't have time to get into the complexities of that question.”

“Marian, if something is wrong, you can tell me. I'm here to help,” he stops, it suddenly dawning on him. “Or is this about Merlin? Did you just come from the infirmary?”

“No, no, nothing like that. It's actually about...last night,” she lifts her eyes to meet his. “But I wanted to wait until I could get you alone.”

Arthur nods, a bit relieved she had not come to pronounce any deaths, “What about last night?”

She hesitates, and there is a moment where Arthur is not sure she will even say anything at all, “Have you considered the possibility that it may not have been Robin who shot those arrows?”

Arthur cannot seem to think of a reason why she would single him out to confess her uncertainties about the person at fault. She even chose to bring it up now and here, in the rain, which has deterred people from occupying the square as they normally would at this time of day, leaving little risk of them being overheard.

“I know I am not without my share of enemies,” Arthur admits, “but given my purpose here and our encounter earlier yesterday, it seems most likely that he should be the one to want me dead.”

“You think very little of Robin now, don't you?” She asks. “Even after all our time together as children, you give him no benefit of the doubt.”

The threads slowly begin to come together. She is not confessing her uncertainties out of concern for him, but out of concern for someone else, someone whose allegiance would cause her incrimination.

“You are still friends, aren't you?” He scratches his temple, using it as a cover to turn and see if anyone is nearby, returning his gaze to her when the coast is clear. “You and Robin.”

“Yes,” she answers simply and without shame.

“So that's what this is about,” he says. “And here I thought you had come to send me off with your best wishes, offer me luck...”

“I'm sorry to have wounded your pride, but we cannot waste what little time we have alone, unobserved, on niceties of etiquette.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows and rests his arm across his horse's saddle, “Ah, I see. Talking to me is part of etiquette now, is it? Well that is far more flattering than mere friendship.”

“You're twisting my words.”

“Marian, Robin Hood is not worth risking your life over. He has made poor choices. He is a wanted outlaw, and if the steward ever finds out--”

She visibly bristles with anger, like a cat whose hair suddenly stands on end, “I do not pick my friends based on the approval of the steward, but by their merit. And it is by _your_ merit,” she sizes Arthur up as she steps in closer, “or at least what I hope it to be, that I am even having, or _trying_ to have, this conversation with you. Because I trust you. But if I have judged you wrongly then forgive me, and tell me now, so that I might prepare myself for the steward's wrath once you have informed him of my apparent treason.”

Arthur leans back, unaware he would strike such a nerve, and afraid of becoming collateral damage amidst her fury. This conversation has obviously not gone how either of them had intended for it to. Her cheeks flush, either from her passion or the embarrassment of allowing that passion to rise to the surface, perhaps both, but she does not apologize.

“I should have guessed you two were still familiar,” Arthur says. He reaches out to lift the edge of her hood, which had fallen over her face, so that he might see her steely blue eyes more clearly, “I hear he has a charm that is not easily shaken off.”

She swats his hand away, “Do not mistake me for a girl with weak knees, Arthur Pendragon--”

“I would never.”

“You make it very difficult not to become infuriated with you,” she says with a sigh, taking a moment to collect herself. “Please...before I say anything more on the subject, I must know,” her eyes flicker away for the first time since she approached him, her voice softening as her anger deflates, “have I placed my faith in a man who will trust me or indict me?”

He lets out a breath, wiping some of the rain water from his face, “Yesterday I condemned a man to the gallows for associating with Robin Hood. Wouldn't I be a man of inconsistent honor if I allowed this to pass freely?”

“No, you would be a man who takes responsibility for his mistakes. I think you and I both know Brom's sentence was a lapse in your character,” she says. “I was there. I saw it. Had the steward not been there, not brought Morgana into it, you'd have granted him clemency.” When Arthur doesn't respond, she continues, “We were just fortunate that Robin came--”

“ _Fortunate_?” Arthur goes rigid at the word, “Don't glorify the things he does. He killed two men in that skirmish, castle guards, and I doubt their families would consider Robin's appearance 'fortunate,' nor would Merlin who, if you recall, had a blade pressed to his throat.”

“He saved that innocent man's life! And you don't even _know_ what else--”

“He tried to _kill_ me last night, Marian!” Now it is Arthur's turn to collect himself, thankful that the steady hum the rainfall is there to conceal their voices. “Look, I understand loyalties are difficult to abandon. Honestly, I do, I have struggled with it myself, which is why I'm going to give you time to rethink your allegiances.”

“Arthur, please...just _listen_ to what I am trying to say.”

“No, you listen to me,” says Arthur, “You need to take special care in who you chose to stand beside, if not for your own sake then for Leofrick's.”

Marian looks to the castle, and Arthur follows her gaze. Standing obediently in the doorway, just beneath the cover of the threshold stands little Leofrick, who bounces on his toes and repeatedly juts his hand out into the rain, which has begun to pour freely, before retracting it with a loud giggle and wiping it off on his tunic.

“He's in more danger with the steward than he is with Robin.”

“The steward?” Arthur furrows his brow, its creases deepening at the implications, “Marian, what are you talking about?”

“Like I said, maybe it wasn't Robin who attacked last night,” she meets his eyes again. “Before you do anything rash, just be sure you are trusting the right people, Arthur.”

His stomach churns at the all too familiar notion and he opens his mouth to respond, but a lazy arm falls slack across Arthur's shoulder as Gwaine appears at his side, soaking wet. He gives Arthur a friendly pat on the chest, “All saddled and ready to go, sire.” He flicks his hair out of his face and immediately notices Marian, “Oh,” Letting go of Arthur, he steps back, “Did I interrupt?”

“No, I was just wishing the two of you safety on behalf of myself and the king,” she motions to Leofrick still at the door.

“Right, then,” Gwaine smiles, giving the small king a wave, before turning back to them, “I thought you might have been bringing us news on our lad, Merlin.”

“Oh,” Marian nods. “Yes, he has yet to wake, but has regained some of his color.”

Gwaine smiles, “Well that's good to hear, isn't it?” He backhands Arthur's arm.

“Excellent,” he agrees, though it lacks enthusiasm. His mind is clouded with other matters, ones that not only concern the well-being of Merlin, but of them all. In a world of faces, it is difficult to distinguish genuine flesh among the turbulent seas of porcelain masks. Put your faith in the wrong person and you will be drowned.

“Nurse and nanny...” Gwaine says, his smile creeping wider, “You must be busy. When does a lovely lady like yourself ever stop to enjoy a drink at the tavern?”

“You're sharing a drink with me today, Gwaine,” Arthur says to spare Marian the need of offering a reply. “Let's focus on that, huh?” He spins the knight around and shoves him towards the horse he had outfitted for himself.

“Another time, my lady!”

“Your men have a charm all their own, it seems,” she says, watching Gwaine climb onto his saddle. She meets Arthur's eyes once more, and it is clear she has more to say, but rather than speak up, she turns to head inside.

“Marian,” Arthur reaches out to grab her arm, stopping her in her tracks. He quiets his voice, “Do whatever it takes to bring Merlin round. Please.”

She stares at him, “Arthur...are you sure?”

“Whatever it takes. I know you can do it.” He pauses before adding, “I trust you.”

There is hesitation, but she finally nods with a faint smile, “As you wish.”

He bows his head in thanks, releasing her arm, and mounts onto his respective horse. Their stay in Nottingham will not end well if Arthur does not have his voice of reason to nag him along the way, and he hopes he will not have to be without him for much longer. Giving one last look towards the castle doors, he sees Marian standing with Leofrick, who raises his wooden toy dagger into the air to send him off with a proper tribute. Arthur smiles. He unsheathes his own sword, Leofrick's eyes widening at its splendor, and raises it into the sky.

* * *

Tucked safely within the walls of the castle, there in the infirmary, amidst his personal oblivion, a touch of heat enters into Merlin's chest, spreading like warm molasses over his body until he becomes aware. Not just of flames and dreams, but of cool air again his cheek, the rain pitter-pattering against the roof. And voices. Distant voices that slowly draw near.

“He's so pale...” a male voice says from above him.

“No, I think he's always like that,” says another. As he draws into consciousness, Merlin begins to not only hear the people around him, but recognize them as well. He urges his own voice to respond, for his eyes to open. He cannot be sure how long they have been out of use. A few minutes? Days? He cannot even be sure where he is, though the padding beneath him is too soft to be the stone floor of the bed chamber.

“It's a good thing Arthur isn't here to see him like this,” Sir Leon says, “So drawn and frail.”

“Honestly,” Percival insists, “I think he's always like that.”

With a little effort, Merlin takes control of his body, “I'm...flattered...” he croaks, his eyes fluttering open. Above him, the three knights spring away from the sides of the bed; Leon is already laughing with joy, while Elyan leans back in as if to ensure this is no joke, and Percival grabs his face to plant a kiss on his forehead.

“Bless you!” he says, “These two thought you were done for, but I knew. I knew you wouldn't meet your end like this.”

“We didn't think you were _done_ _for_ ,” Sir Leon defends, exchanging a glance with Elyan.

“Right, we just...knew not to hold you to Arthur's standards,” he says.

“Arthur...” Merlin suddenly lifts his head to look around, “Where is he? Is he alright?” Percival and Leon each rest a hand on one of his shoulders, guiding him to lie back down.

“Arthur's fine,” says Leon. “He was blinded temporarily, but Marian here got him put right in no time. He was able to walk out of that scorched wasteland on his own two feet.” Merlin looks between the three of them, hardly able to believe that Arthur was effected so little. Then again, he remembers the feel of the chamber doors against his hands, immovable, solid, frozen shut despite the inferno around them. A powerful magic that rejected his own attempts to free them. Not only did it reject his efforts, but it took more than was given, sucking the very life from his body as if a spile had been stabbed into him, determined to run him dry.

Elyan offers a sympathetic look, “Don't feel too poorly, Merlin.”

“The man is a legend for a reason,” Percival says. “No one blames you for passing out.”

“Even if it was for the better half of a day,” says Leon says with a faint grin.

“That's enough you three,” Marian pushes her way in front of Percival and smiles down at Merlin. She dabs his face and neck with a cool cloth, “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” he says, his brow drawing together as he really thinks about his answer. “I feel...great, actually.” There is no pounding in his head, no burning in his lungs, nor does his chest feel constricted, but rather it feels like he could suck in enough breath to last him a lifetime if he wanted to. His eyes are clear and moist, and not a single ounce of him seems to be charred. It is a strange sensation to be of health, but feel as though you are not deserving of it.

He thinks back to last night, the room becoming an insufferable vacuum of heat and smoke, and the spell he uttered as he was being drawn under. _Deat_ _á_ _ch a bhe_ _ï_ _th imith_ _é_. It must have been enough, if Arthur was spared any harm, but Merlin had been sure it would be his own end.

“You seem confused,” Leon says.

“Oh,” Merlin glances around at all of them, unaware that the feelings of his internal monologue had shown through, “Just...wasn't expecting to be alive, I suppose.”

“I was given very clear instructions to make sure you came through this,” Marian says, filling a glass of water for him when she sees him smacking his cracked lips. “So I worked a bit of my magic, and here you are.”

Sir Leon props a few of Merlin's pillows behind him as he shifts to sit up, and Marian hands him the cup. He chugs down the water, letting out a satisfied breath when it falls empty. “Thank you. For all that you've done. I know you must have your hands full tending to the king.”

“Well if I didn't get you on your feet, who would tend to _your_ king?” she smiles, glancing around at the knights. “One of you?” The three men all exchange looks with one another.

“I tend to be more of the advising type than the nurturing type,” Leon says, clearing his throat, “So I'm sure I would be of little use to him, but Percival has a knack for fostering others. I've seen it.”

“No,” Percival quickly deflects the suggestion, shaking his head. “I'm a rubbish chef and were it not for the skilled hands of servants, my chambers would be a sty. Elyan, however, is a man of many skills, aren't you?”

Elyan opens his mouth to speak, but is at a loss for words. “I...yeah, but...” Merlin can see him searching for any rationalization out. “Arthur...he has a lot of hair, and I...I wouldn't know what to do with it,” he admits as though its a shame, running a hand over his shortly cropped scalp with a shrug.

“His _hair_?” Percival asks. “That's why you won't serve your king?”

“You're a pig. I hardly think that's a good excuse either.”

Marian leans down to Merlin as the knights continue their discussion, whispering, “Let us hope Arthur is never without you.”

“He won't be as long as I can help it, my lady.”

“--I can't cook!” Percival reiterates now that it has escalated into a full blown argument.

“Wait, wait,” Leon holds his hands out to silence his friends. “What about Gwaine?” The very thought of it sends them all, including Merlin, into a fit of boisterous laughter that fills the infirmary. Marian, suppressing her own amusement, tries to quiet the men so they don't disturb the recovery of the others around them. They choke back their remaining laughs, and look around to see if they've won the disapproval of anyone.

“Honestly,” says Marian. “You will have to behave if you're going to stay in here. Don't you three have a bandit to question anyway?” The knights' faces fall at those words and they exchange glances with one another. Percival scratches the back of his head, while Elyan suddenly takes interest in his shoes, and Merlin can see the immediate regret on Marian's face as her own smile gives way. He was not even aware they had one of Hood's men in custody, but knows now is not the time to ask for clarification. The pieces are simple enough to fall into place on their own.

She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, “I...sorry, did I--”

“No,” Leon is quick to soothe her nerves. “You've said nothing wrong, my lady. It's just...he was being uncooperative, so we decided to take a break. After we had eaten, when we returned to continue the inquisition, we found him in his cell.” He pauses, careful to proceed with discretion. “He had used one of the utensils from his meal to take his own life.”

Marian rests a hand on her stomach as she sinks down onto the vacant bed beside Merlin's. He can only assume she feels the same nausea he does. Something about this doesn't sit right in his gut, and for him it is more than the tragedy of a man seeing no end brighter than death, but the fact that it was magic that almost killed him and Arthur last night, not arrows, the cloying bitterness of its power lingering in the air even now, and that their only link to possibly revealing that is dead.

“We are sorry to be the ones to deliver this somber news, my lady,” says Leon. “But you are right, there are matters we should be attending to.” He rests a hand on Merlin's shoulder, “Rest and get well. We miss having you at our side.”

Merlin nods, too deep in thought to respond with words. He watches as the knight's file out of the room before turning his attention to Marian. The tact Leon was able to place in his words is difficult for Merlin to muster, so he simply asks, “Are prisoners always given silverware?”

“No,” Marian answers so quickly Merlin is sure she must have already been thinking about it. Her voice is strong, almost angry, not timid as he had expected it to be. “Nor does any of Robin Hood's men end their own lives. I have seen enough to know the outlaws value life above all else. No man left behind. The right to fight for survival. And to endure.”

“That seems honorable,” says Merlin. “Not far from what the knights of Camelot believe.”

There are few people in the infirmary now, aside from a few sleeping patients and a nurse or two, but Marian takes care to see if any of them are watching before she moves to sit on the edge of Merlin's bed, quieting her voice, “Yesterday evening, I saw you in the hallway. Eavesdropping.”

Merlin feels his ears burn and his face grows hot, “I...no. No, I wasn't. That's not what I was doing at all. I was, um, on my way to Arthur's chambers, but, well, if you knew me, you'd know that I have a bit of trouble with directions, and Sir Guy, well he's not the most approachable of blokes, is he? So when I saw him, I thought to myself--”

“I know the face of someone when they are lost, and I know the face of someone when they are spying. Would you like to try another defense?”

“Sorry,” says Merlin, dropping all pretenses, “I was worried. I could tell from the moment we arrived that Sir Guy didn't like Arthur, and in the life of a king, being found unfavorable can quickly turn into a dangerous situation. But I meant no harm.”

Rather than scold him as he suspected, she smiles and gets up from the bed, “Arthur is fortunate to have you, indeed.”

“You're not upset?”

“With your devotion to your friend? Merlin, really, you need to get to know me better.”

“It seems I'm starting to,” says Merlin. He sits up taller when he realizes that she is preparing to leave. “Where is Arthur now?”

“He and Sir Gwaine set off hours ago to visit the villages,” she says, stopping at the foot of his bed to untie the apron from her waist. “I think he is hoping to hear word of Robin's recent activity or whereabouts, but I wouldn't expect him to return with vast amounts of new insight.”

Merlin frowns, “Why not?”

“Robin Hood and his men have more supporters than you might think.” She hangs her apron up on a peg. “But I'm sure when he returns, and sees you are doing well, he will pleased regardless.”

“Oh yes. Thrilled. His boots won't shine themselves, after all.”

“Especially not after being out in this weather,” she nods out the window, where sheets of rain pour down from the blackened sky. Merlin scowls when he thinks about the mud that will be caked up to Arthur's knees. “Don't think about that now though. Focus on restoring your energy, then you can turn your efforts to Arthur's boots.” She smiles and walks out the door, leaving Merlin to ponder what to do from here. The mission his two friends are on doesn't particularly reek of danger, but whatever the case, he is incapable of sitting quietly while Arthur is out. If he and Gwaine were to encounter magic, and the person Merlin fears holds it, they would be defenseless without him there.

He throws the covers aside and hops out of bed, pausing to gather his bearings and ensure he is fit to continue, but he doesn't falter in the slightest. Glancing to the bedside table, is it difficult to determine what it is that Marian gave him for his recovery, but it appears to have worked wonders he didn't know were possible. Turning his head, he stares at the door she disappeared through, a faint inkling creeping to the forefront of his mind. He shakes it from his thoughts, knowing there are bigger things at hand at the moment.

It is a bit of a walk to his chambers, which he must make in nothing but the nightshirt the infirmary must have dressed him in upon his admittance, making it quite an uncomfortable stroll. His gait becomes pigeon-toed, as if the lack of free movement will keep the winds at bay and the fabric from flying up to expose him. If he was in Camelot, it would be a far more shameful experience, one the knights would never let him live down, but the fact that he knows very few people here is almost a comfort. The thought perks him up, turning his toes back to the front, and making him walk a little taller despite the guards' scoffs and the maids' turning red.

True freedom returns, however, when he is able to spring from his room fully clothed in his usual garb. He doesn't know exactly where Arthur will be or how he intends to track him down, but he starts by making a run for the stables, knowing he will cover much more ground on the back of a horse than on his own two feet.

* * *

The rest of the day passes uneventfully, and as night descends, Arthur and Gwaine escape the rain and the monotony to sit down in a small tavern tucked away in a village compiled of little more than a blacksmith, a few farmers, and a mill. So it comes as a surprise when most of the tables inside are full, many patrons probably passing through on the main road that runs through the forest just outside. In the middle of the floor, however, the two manage to find an open spot and takes their seats. The fact that it is also situated near the service bar is realized to Gwaine's utmost delight.

“It was a few winter's ago, but I knew she'd remember me,” says Gwaine when he returns from fetching them a few tankards. He glances over his shoulder at a young woman, who tries her best not to show interest, but betrays herself by casting several glances their way as she cleans up the counter. “I guess that's what happens when you have looks like mine.” He flashes a cheeky grin and leans back to enjoy the first taste of his mead.

“Are you sure it's your looks she remembers and not your stench?”

Gwaine can't help but laugh, “Don't start this again. If you're going to be a killjoy the rest of the night then, no offense sire, but I think I'll see if I fair any better with Thea over there.”

Arthur glances at the barmaid again, “She is beautiful, isn't she?”

“Ah, there, see?” Gwaine rests a foot on his opposite knee, “You can always count on a woman to raise your spirits.”

“Is that a motto of yours?” Arthur smiles, giving his own drink a try.

“One of many, but this one's new. I had to find one to replace 'Never trust a noble.'”

“Given that one up, have you?”

“Well it was either that or retire my rank as a knight of Camelot, but...” Gwaine takes another gulp of mead and shrugs, “I quite fancy the cape.”

“That's good to hear. You would be difficult to replace,” Arthur says without thinking, and the two of them fall silent, the unease of men confessing their fondness for one another becoming too much to bear. Arthur clears his throat and leans on the table, “Why is it that no one seems to want to talk about Hood? We've been all over this forest. If he's such a menace, why is it as if he doesn't even exist? No trace of him, no word of him, nothing.”

“Perhaps they are afraid of being the ones to aid in his capture,” Gwaine offers. “Scared into silence. I have seen it done before.”

“Maybe,” Arthur says, though not convinced as he thinks things through. “And you said this tavern is where you met Hood before?”

“It's been a few years, but...” he nods as he surveys the room, “this is the place.” Pointing at a fireplace against the far wall, he smiles, “I picked his pocket while he was standing against that mantel waiting for his manservant. He caught me, but rather than kill me, he bought me food and a drink.”

Arthur looks at the hearth, imagining the scene unfold, “Generous of him.” He turns his attention back to Gwaine, “And that exchange doesn't give you any doubts about our mission?”

He seems to think that over as he leisurely sips from his mug, “I've met a lot of people, and I've seen a lot of them change. I understand one fond memory doesn't cancel out a man's transgressions. Likewise, one foul memory shouldn't be enough to ruin a man's legacy of kindness.”

Arthur absently plays with the handle on his tankard, staring into the liquid as he mulls over the truth of what Gwaine, of all people, has brought to light. “That was...” Arthur nods with a smile creeping back onto his face, “Almost insightful.”

“I have my moments.”

The sound of the front door opening draws Arthur's attention over Gwaine's shoulder to the small band of men coming in. All dressed alike, they wear various shades of green and brown, darkened from absorbing the falling rain, and with handkerchiefs over the bottom half of their faces. Five pairs of eyes scan the room, and it is not difficult for Arthur to guess who they're looking for.

“From what I hear,” Gwaine says, oblivious to the hazard behind him, “I'm not the only one with a past here. You used to come here as a young lad, didn't you? With Uther to--”

Arthur doesn't take his eyes off the men, “Stop talking.”

“Look, I know you and I don't usually partake in sentimental talk, and I admit that I'm one to speak rather than listen, but I'd say we're--”

“No, shut up,” Arthur looks at him. “Don't look now, but there are a crew of men in hoods watching us.”

“Think their attire is a good indication of who they're working for?”

“Seems likely,” Arthur says, glancing at the group once more, watching as they start towards their table.

Gwaine sets his drink down on the table with a sigh, “And we left our swords out with the horses. Brilliant.”

“Nervous without your security blanket, Gwaine?”

“Only for your delicate hands, your majesty,” he makes a fist, turning suddenly in his seat to jab one of the men in the kidney, causing him to double over. Gwiane knees him in the face as he gets up from his chair, shoving him back into his friends. Before Arthur can come to his aid, a second man breaks free from the group and delivers a hefty uppercut, knocking Gwaine from his feet as he spins into Arthur. The two fall into a heap on the ground. Arthur grunts as he finds himself softening Gwaine's fall.

“This is almost reminiscent of the day we first met,” Gwaine muses with a smile. Arthur has no time to respond. His eyes widen and he shoves Gwaine off of him, the two springing apart just before a dagger embeds itself in the floorboards between them. Arthur scrambles to his feet as a hooded man charges at him. Using the man's momentum, Arthur grabs his arm and propels him into the service bar. He slams the man's head down against the counter.

A sharp pain radiates through Arthur's back as the crack of splintering wood fills the air. Shards of broken chair fly out from behind him. He doesn't even have a chance to crumple to the ground before a strong hand grabs the back of his vest, yanking him off of the other man, and throwing Arthur down onto the top of an occupied table. A woman screams. Out of the corners of his eyes, he can see a few patrons abandoning their tables and fleeing the tavern. Gwaine's enthusiastic grunts can still be heard as he fights his own battle somewhere nearby. A punch to the face sends Arthur's head flinging back against the weathered wood. His ears ring, dulling the ambient noise around him. Disoriented, he still manages to block the next attempt, knocking the man's arm out of the way and striking him in the nose. The man retracts with a cry of pain and Arthur thrusts the man off of him with a kick to the gut. Gwaine turns just in time to catch the reeling man and uses him as a human shield as another knife is thrown. Its blade sinks into the man's chest with a muddied thud that Arthur can almost feel the ache of within his own body. He pushes himself off the table, rushing to intercept another man before he can reach Gwaine. The man stands a good foot over the others, and Arthur's realization of his breadth must have shown on his face because a deep bellow falls out of the man's throat. He grabs the front of Arthur's tunic, but before he can get any further, Arthur drives the heel of his boot down into the fragile joints of the man's foot. He ducks to avoid a hit to the face and thrusts his knee up into the large man's gut, who doubles over. Locking his hands together, Arthur strikes down on the back of his head and shoves him to the ground. Without missing a beat, he dodges another blow from the last hooded man standing and throws his entire weight into a punch of his own, his fist smashing into the man's mouth. The man staggers back, tripping over a comrade and hitting his head on the edge of a table on his way down. The tavern falls still.

“Ah...” Arthur grimaces as he shakes out the hand throbbing from his last punch.

Gwaine grabs his shoulder, “The queen's dainty hands bothering her?”

“I think he had fangs,” says Arthur. “Or bricks for teeth.” They both laugh, but stop as soon as they see Thea glowering from behind the counter, her eyes wide with fear, but her face burning red with anger. Around them, the hooded men writhe and groan, while the customers who were brave enough to remain in the tavern cower in various corners.

Gwaine steps over one of the men and leans on the counter near her, “I hope this doesn't ruin what we have, you and I...”

Behind him, Arthur notices an outlaw reaching for the knife that sits only a few feet away. He grabs a clay pitcher from the counter and smashes it down onto the man's head, knocking him out for good this time. Wiping his hands off on his pants, he realizes Gwaine and Thea are both staring at him.

“Oh...” Arthur nods, clearing his throat as he jerks a thumb over his shoulder, “Yes, we're very sorry. I will be sure to compensate you for any damage done here tonight.” All three of them look to the door as a few more men dressed in identical hoods step inside.

“Just how big is his band of merry men?” Gwaine asks.

“Bigger than I thought.”

“Out! Get out!” Thea says, “Both of you! Before you get me and my customers killed!”

Without another moment to waste, the two run towards the back of the tavern, Arthur reaching down as they go to snatch the knife that is still stuck in the floor with its hilt held up. Gwaine flings open the shutters of a window, and lets Arthur climb out first before following after him. Their boots land in inches of mud as the rain continues to pour down around them.

Arthur motions for Gwaine to follow him as he creeps to the corner of the tavern, staying low to the ground. He puts his back to the wall and pivots around the bend just enough to see the post where their horses are tethered is surrounded by Hood's men. Arthur looks down at the small dagger in his hand, flipping it over a few times, and knows it is not enough.

“Any ideas?” Gwaine whispers.

“There!” An outlaw shouts from atop his horse.

“Run!” Arthur pushes Gwaine ahead of him, and the two run as swiftly as their legs will carry them towards the cover of the forest. The mud splatters out from under them and the rain seems to strike harder against their faces as they fly across the small field. Risking a glance over his shoulder, Arthur sees a handful of mounted men trailing in their wake. As they approach a wooden fence dividing the field from the woods, the two grab a hold of the top rung and vault themselves over to flee into the maze of tree trunks.

“Two men and a knife against half a dozen armed cavalry? I've never faced quite these odds before!” Gwaine looks over at Arthur, and Arthur can't help but find amusement in the vitality that has sprung into the knight's eyes. It shines through even the darkness of the night storm. “I like a challenge!” A horse whinnies, drawing their attention behind them again. The outlaws are quickly approaching.

“Split up, but stay within earshot!” Arthur shouts before shooting around the opposite side of a tree. A mounted man charges up, nearly nipping at Arthur's heels as he attempts to keep his footing in the water-drenched soil. The distinct ring of a sword being unsheathed sounds, and Arthur instinctively ducks to avoid the man's blade as he comes along beside him. He grabs the man's arm as he passes, pulling him from his saddle. The man hits the ground hard. Arthur trips over him. The two scramble to their feet and face off. The man swings. Arthur jumps back. He readies his dagger. The man swings again and Arthur knocks it away as he advances, elbowing the man in the face and spinning to lash out – the blade of his knife cuts deep, drawing a line from the hollow of the outlaw's cheek all the way across his left ear. He howls in pain and slashes at Arthur, who grabs the hand holding the hilt of the sword and throws his elbow into the man's face again. The man concedes as he crumbles to the ground, releasing his grip on the hilt.

Arthur sprints across the forest floor, tucking the dagger into his belt and launching himself onto the now vacant horse. He rides towards the grunts and thuds of a neighboring skirmish until he sees a few silhouettes, one with an obvious, and all too familiar, fuller head of hair.

“Gwaine!”

The knight tucks and rolls to give himself some space from his opponent, and Arthur tosses him the sword, which he catches just in time to block an onslaught, the forest ringing with the clang of metal. Arthur pulls his knife back out as he circles around the fray.

Another horse is suddenly upon him and its rider leaps, knocking Arthur from his saddle as they both crash to the ground below. The force of the fall meets Arthur's back so swiftly, it casts out all his breath, and he gasps, struggling to regain it. He flexes his hand to find it is empty. He is unarmed. He gropes blindly at the muddied turf, hoping to feel the coolness of his knife, but his opponent regains himself too quickly. The man rolls over onto all fours and reaches beside him for his sword. With no breath to sustain him, Arthur can only watch.

The man curls his fingers around the hilt and the muscles in his arms shift as if to lift it, but it does not budge from the ground. The bloodthirsty glint in his eyes wane, his brow creasing in confusion when he finds someone's foot standing on the blade. It is not a hefty foot, but small and dainty. Arthur peers up through the rain, struggling to see as his eyes are doused with drops, but he makes out a lithe figure, also cloaked and hooded with a handkerchief covering their face, but they go one step further. A brown leather mask surrounds their eyes. Someone does not want to be known.

The masked man kicks the outlaw in the face, grabbing the outlaw's arm as he flips over his back with smooth acrobatics, pulling the arm free from its socket with a sickening pop, and finishing him off with sweeping kick to the side of the head.

Though finally able to use his lungs, Arthur finds he is at a loss for words, keeping his eyes on this new ally and stammering to his feet. He follows the masked man's finger as he points to the abandoned sword on the ground. Hearing quick footsteps behind him, Arthur promptly picks it up and turns to block the blade of another hooded man. He spins his sword to unlock their blades and cuts across the man's exposed torso, knocking him to the ground with his shoulder.

When he turns back around the masked man is already occupied with another one of Hood's men, only this time he has drawn a sword of his own. He twirls and parries with an elegance Arthur has not seen before in combat; his movements fluid, dance-like. But his strength proves to be weak. His arms waver as the two blades press against one another. Arthur runs to his aid, but the outlaw releases their swords without warning, causing the masked man to stumble. He receives an elbow in the back and nearly loses his footing, but runs straight into Arthur instead.

Catching him against his chest, Arthur does not feel the strength of his muscles but the fullness of his bust. This is no masked man. This is a _woman_. He grabs onto her shoulders and pulls back just enough to look into her eyes. The lack of light does not allow him to make out details, but he doesn't need visual proof to support his suspicions. The scent of lavender and pine that fills the air is enough to confirm her identity.

She pushes his hands off of her and turns to face the outlaw, ducking his swing as she cartwheels out of the way, pulling up her sword to clash against his. She spins, using her free arm to elbow the man in the face, flipping over him, and grappling an arm tightly around his throat until he gives way to unconsciousness, letting him fall into the mud with a dull thud – an audible punctuation to their battle with Hood's men. Only the steady rush of wind and rain can be heard now.

Gwaine stands with them, though Arthur can't be sure how long he's been there, his face twisting in disbelief, “Who the bloody hell is this?” Not far off, another horse whinnies and the clattering of hooves draw near. Gwaine's shoulders deflate, “This night just doesn't end, does it?”

“Come on,” Arthur pulls his attention away from the treeline back to Gwaine and the mysterious woman, “We should--” he stops, looking around only to find the two of them are alone once more. He furrows his brow, turning in a circle, but she is nowhere in sight.

“Well how about that,” Gwaine mutters. “Takes the glory and leaves us behind.”

Arthur continues to look around them, but starts walking. It is clear she can fend for herself if need be. “If we stay on top of the ridge, we should be able to miss any men that might be riding the road below.” Gwaine nods and the two escalate into a run, weaving in and out of trees as they head in the direction of Nottingham. They hug the edge of the steep bank, keeping an eye out for signs of Hood's men, but it is difficult to see anything clearly beneath the gloom of the night's showers. They can only hope the veil of water that conceals their hunters will also conceal them.

Gwaine stops suddenly, and Arthur skids to a stop, nearly losing his footing, “What is it?”

“I think I see someone,” he says, resting a hand on the trunk of a thin tree leaning out over the hillside. “Wait...is that--” Gwaine leans over farther, as if the extra few inches will help him to make out the distant figure. The loose soil beneath his feet shifts before giving way.

“Gwaine!” Arthur tries to grab him, but the knight is already set in motion, bringing his king down with him. They tumble down the ridge, sliding through mud and toppling over brush, branches whacking their faces, bristles tugging on their clothes, until they land in a heap where the ground evens out. Arthur doesn't move for a moment, letting his body register how much damage has been done, but when he feels nothing aside from general aches and bruises, he rolls over onto his stomach.

“Gwaine? Are you wounded?”

Beside him, he hears a groan, “No, but my pride might need some nursing.”

A horse snorts in front of them, and they scramble to their feet with a pulse of adrenaline to find a lone rider standing in front of them. Not stout and strong, but lanky and familiar.

“Merlin!” Arthur says, a bright smile spreading across his face.

Hopping down from his saddle, Merlin looks over the two men, “Why is it whenever I think I've seen the worst of your filth, you have to go and prove me wrong?”

“Someone has to keep you on your toes” Arthur pats Merlin's cheek with a muddy palm. He looks at his friend a long moment, the fear that bound his chest unraveling, “It's good to see you.”

“You too, sire.” Arthur ruffles Merlin's hair and shoves him into Gwaine who entraps him in a strong embrace, taking special care to get him as dirty as possible.

 


	4. Chapter Four

 

Deep within his cave, the bear lies dormant with slumber. His breaths are deep and even, laced with a gurgle that offers only a taste of the vehement growl and sharp fangs that lie within. Merlin takes caution in inching closer to the beast, his blankets cast aside presumably from the heat found even after nightfall. The glow from the single taper held in Merlin's hand falls across the bed, illuminating the king face down, and mouth slack, the bruises along his back and face appearing only as faint shadows against his pale skin.

“Sire,” Merlin whispers in a feeble attempt to wake him. He searches the room for a better means, but without curtains to throw open, he cannot rely on the sun to do the job for him. “Arthur, it's time to wake.” His voice is still a whisper and he clears his throat, hoping to rid himself of the nerves this hibernating blonde bear can provoke in the early hours of morning. He's not afraid of him, no, there is no need, not entirely, but it is upon first waking that the king habitually allows his disagreeable side to come to the surface.

Merlin decides to look for other solutions. A pitcher of water sits at Arthur's bedside, and while the idea of throwing water on him brings an undeniable smile to Merlin's face, he knew it would only cause more work for himself in the long run – after all, it was working the mud from their clothes that kept him from an early bedtime last night, he has no desire to spend his morning drying bed linens.

Poking him seems the next logical answer. Merlin readies his stance, so that he can dodge out of Arthur's inevitably sour reach as soon as he delivers his wake up prod, but just as he is gathering his gumption, his sight comes to rest on the flame of his candle, and an idea dawns on him. It's bright like the sun. Well, almost. And has heat like the sun. That's enough for Merlin to give it a try. Stooping down beside Arthur, Merlin slowly slides the candle closer to Arthur's face, watching intently to see if his eyelids flutter against its light. Nothing. Merlin's shoulders sag. But then a bright blue eye suddenly snaps open and the two find themselves eye to eye in unusually close proximity.

“What are you doing?” Arthur mumbles sleepily.

“Successfully waking _you_ up,” Merlin says, still hovering close with a triumphant smile. “That's what.” His voice must hold too much cheer for the king's liking.

“Get back before I hang you from the rafters...”

“Right,” Merlin walks across the room to the wardrobe where they hung the clothes salvaged from the fire. What little Arthur had brought with him was dwindled down to two tunics and an extra pair of pants. “You might want to think about going shopping, sire.”

“What time is it?” Arthur asks. He has yet to move.

“The time you always get up,” says Merlin. “I know it's difficult to tell. Shall I light extra candles? Brighten the place up a bit? Why anyone would want a room with no windows is beyond me...it's so gloomy. Then again I suppose if you are assaulted by flaming arrows every night, this would be a preferable alternative.”

Arthur snuggles back into bed, allowing his eyes to fall shut. His voice is muffled as he talks into the padding of his down pillow, “Did it ever occur to you that I might be deserving of a few more minutes of sleep today?”

“Why would that occur to me?” Merlin sets out a red tunic and begins walking the room, lighting any wicks that do not already hold a flame. “I didn't get a few more minutes today.”

“You have no need of it,” Arthur begins as he rolls over onto his back, “but I just spent four days riding in the sweltering heat to get here from Camelot--”

“So did I.”

“--and when I finally arrived, I was made a fool in front of most of Nottingham.”

“So was I,” Merlin says again, lifting his free hand up to caress his neck where he remembers Robin Hood's blade pressing into his flesh.

“And I have had to shine up to one of the most dreadfully unpleasant men I have ever met.”

“I suffer that on a daily basis,” Merlin says beneath his breath, though loud enough for Arthur to hear. He ducks when one of Arthur's pillows comes flying at him, shielding the flame of the candle he's holding with his hand. “Careful! Do you want to start another fire?”

Arthur points at him as he springs into a sitting position, “ _And_ I almost died in a fire.”

“I was there too!” offense drips from the ends of Merlin's words. He scans the room for any forgotten lights. “Got it worse than you, I might add...”

“Then I couldn't even enjoy a drink at the tavern, no, I had to fight off a dozen of Hood's men, unarmed, most of the time, and in the middle of a torrential downpour,” Arthur rubs his face to rid himself of both the lingering want to sleep and the memories of last night.

“Who do you think had to _launder_ your clothes afterward?” Merlin asks with a pointed look. “Hmm? Tell me that. I've seen swamp rats less soiled.”

Arthur furrows his brow, “Merlin...” he holds out his hands to mimic the two plates of a scale, “Be slaughtered by a dozen men...or scrub a pair of boots? Don't be so dramatic. I think it's pretty clear who here is the one truly in need of some extra sleep.”

“Hmm, yes, I suppose you're right,” Merlin rests the taper back at Arthur's bedside. He leans in to peer at Arthur's face, “You are looking a little haggard, sire...pasty, worn...and those bruises aren't helping you any, are they?”

Arthur lunges at him, but Merlin scurries from the bedside, causing Arthur to catch his ankle in the blankets and topple over the edge of the bed, hitting the floor with a resounding thud. “ _Merlin_!”

Merlin runs for the door, “No morning is complete without breakfast! I'll go fetch you some, sire!” He slips out the door, eager to leave before Arthur has the chance to get his hands on anything that could turn into a deadly projectile.

* * *

A decent meal is just the ticket to pacifying Arthur's morning grumps, though he remains thoughtful as he sits at the head of the table in his chambers cluttered with the aftermath of breakfast. Merlin glances at him every so often while he begins collecting the dirty dishes, placing one on top of the other quietly as to not disturb Arthur's thoughts, but his mouth betrays his intentions.

“Is everything alright, Arthur?”

“Just sorting through the day ahead of us,” he says, looking into his goblet absently. He lets out a hefty breath and sets it down. “Those funny feelings you sometimes get, Merlin...”

“The ones you always scoff at but then end up regretting you ignored?”

Arthur stares at him for a disapproving moment, finally, “More or less, those are the ones. How are they doing now?”

“You...want to know how my feelings are feeling?”

“I genuinely don't know why I try talking to you sometimes,” Arthur says, dropping his hand from where it was momentarily pinching the bridge of his nose. He waves his hand at the table, “Just clear this off and be on your way then.”

“No, I want to help, I do, it's just...” Merlin trails off. He has had all sorts of feelings since the instant they arrived and none of them have been especially pleasing. Not about the sinister way Sir Guy keeps an eye on Arthur, or the script that Lord Vaisey seems to read off when he's talking to or about him. Not about the abjection plaguing the people and the stagnation of the kingdom's economy. And certainly not about the pulsing force radiating out from a source of magic within the castle that Merlin has yet to identify for certain.

“Just what?”

The sight of Morgana still swims in Merlin's memory. She did not act like an intruder, unfamiliar with the goings on around her and paranoid about who might be over her shoulder watching her, no, she held herself tall, watching things unfold around her with such hunger it's as though she had been...waiting – a prospect that digs at Merlin's stomach. Arthur leans forward in his chair to give Merlin his full attention, but when Merlin looks into his eyes, he not only sees Arthur's worry for him, but all of the other burdens he must carry...as king, as a young man fighting to fulfill a destiny he does not even know he has, and all amidst the turmoils of loss and a broken heart.

“Just...that...” and suddenly Merlin cannot find it in him to share his doubts with Arthur. “Red is a horrible color on you. I should have gotten out the grey.” He busies himself by lifting the pile of dishes he had accumulated into his arms, grabbing Arthur's goblet and placing it on top.

Arthur looks down at his tunic, his face scrunching in what Merlin can only assume is utter bewilderment, “It is the _core_ color of Camelot.”

Merlin nods sympathetically, shifting his weight under the suspicion-filled stare of his king, “It is unfortunate, isn't it?”

“Merlin,” Arthur says sternly to get his attention. He points to the dishes in Merlin's hands then presses his fingertip onto the tabletop. Merlin obediently sets them down. “Whenever you're flustered you resort to insulting me.”

“Maybe you just deserve it.”

“ _Maybe_ you should sit down and tell me what this is really about,” Arthur says as he kicks out the chair positioned to his right, motioning to it. Merlin glances between the chair and Arthur, unsure if he wants to put himself in the position of having to confess. But every now and then, when he sees Arthur sitting at a table surrounded by empty chairs, he realizes that perhaps, just maybe, he is all that Arthur has. And if he does not tell him the truth, then who will? He takes his place beside Arthur and lets out a breath, unsure of where to start.

“There we are,” says Arthur, clearly pleased with Merlin's cooperation. He leans back in his seat. “Now. Out with it. What has you bothered?”

“I didn't want to burden you more than you already are, Arthur.”

“I appreciate your consideration, but,” Arthur shakes his head, “it is my duty to alleviate the worries of my people, including you, and sometimes that means taking them upon myself. You don't need to protect me.”

Merlin smiles faintly at the irony of those words, but it soon passes as he takes a special interest in the wood grain of the table, “I thought...when you were fighting Robin Hood and his men...I thought I saw,” he swallows to clear his throat, which suddenly feels constricted, “Morgana.” He lifts his eyes to catch the king's reaction. Arthur's brow is furrowed, and though his intent gaze is fixed on Merlin, Merlin can tell there is more going on behind his eyes, the idea is being turned over again and again.

“Morgana,” Arthur finally repeats. “You're sure?”

“I--” Merlin stops. He has not seen her since that night, only felt her, but that is not exactly something he can say, and though he thought he caught a glimpse of her face, he was never able to see her more clearly thanks to Robin Hood's intervention. “Well...”

Arthur studies him another moment, “Lord Vaisey's speech that day. It scared you, didn't it?”

Merlin opens his mouth to offer a sharp retort, but thinks again when he sees that Arthur is not mocking him. Not in the least. He is asking a valid question, and possibly, looking for affirmation that concern over the steward's words is a worthy reaction. His silence is taken as his answer.

“Morgana has no limitations when it comes to achieving her ends,” says Arthur. “I put nothing past her, but we can't let her get into our minds. We need to turn our paranoia into vigilance, so that it becomes a help not a hindrance. Tell the others of your suspicions; six pairs of eyes on the lookout will lessen our load.”

There are times, albeit fleeting, when it seems as though Arthur is nothing short of marvelous. Unerring. His stride does not weaken with news of his greatest enemy potentially nearby, and he is able to press beyond himself, and whatever he feels inside, to comfort those around him. But Merlin can't help but feel that during certain circumstances, perhaps the king should be more apprehensive.

“And what about Lord Vaisey?”

“What about him?” Arthur asks.

“You said yourself, he's unpleasant.”

Arthur laughs, “Merlin, being unpleasant doesn't make someone evil. My father was unpleasant, even I can admit to that, but he was a good man.”

That is debatable, but Merlin holds his tongue on the matter, instead saying, “Lady Marian doesn't seem overly fond of him either.”

“Is that supposed to sway my opinion?”

“Does it?”

“No,” says Arthur, standing from his seat. “Look, you both have ill feelings toward him. I understand that, but he has done nothing – apart from maybe being a bit crass upon our first meeting, which I didn't particularly appreciate now that it comes to it – but he has done nothing to earn skepticism from us.”

“He almost killed a man for feeding his starving family,” Merlin offers.

“There is more to it than that,” Arthur paces away from the table. “He was emotionally compromised by the involvement of Hood.”

“And you don't think it's a bit pretentious for him to just sit on his throne and watch while you strive for his approval?”

“You make me sound like a dog eager to please his master.”

“Maybe that's what he's hoping you are,” says Merlin as he finally gets up from his seat. He rather likes being able to sit at Arthur's table with him, but he knows it will not be a regularly occurring privilege, so he takes his time in vacating.

“Well I'm not,” Arthur says firmly. “I do things for us and the good of Camelot, and that's it. If he is not pleased with my actions then he can very well just...”

Merlin raises his eyebrows, eager to hear the end of this sentence, but his mirth must have shown through with too much enthusiasm because Arthur's brow knits together when he looks at Merlin and he waves a hand toward the door, “Just...go.”

Merlin deflates with disappointment.

“Take these dishes back to the kitchen, tell the others about Morgana, and ready my armor for later. I will need you back here just after high noon to help me put it on. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sire,” Merlin manages to gather everything into one arm load, though it teeters precariously. He steadies it with his chin.

“And Merlin...” Arthur calls after him just as he manages to open the chamber doors with hardly a hand to spare. Merlin carefully turns back around to face him, not wanting to jostle anything out of place. “You're fine, aren't you?”

It takes Merlin a moment to realize that Arthur is referring to his health. “Oh,” he nods what little he can without taking his chin off the tower of dishes, “Right as rain, sire.”

The faintest smile pokes through the side of Arthur's mouth, and he nods, making his way across the room to where a large oak desk sits with a few papers scattered on top. Merlin readies himself for a walk through the castle, hopefully without breaking anything, and slips out the door.

* * *

The chores assigned to Merlin do not take as long as expected, maybe because he found all of the knights in one place, or because he scrimped on polishing Arthur's armor. It hasn't been worn since they got to Nottingham, so he sees no need in giving it another go. A bit of spit and a brief buffing should be enough to appease Arthur's uneducated eye when it comes to polish. As long as it shines, he'll think Merlin spent hours on it.

“I do not think it would be wise to make any promises.”

Merlin skids to the stop in the middle of the hallway, a pair of footsteps drawing closer. Sir Guy. Not again. He whips his head around to see if anyone else is in sight, when no one is, he ducks into an alcove housing a grand stone statue and unties the decorative curtain being swept to the side to allow it to fall in front of the opening and conceal him from sight.

“She's growing impatient,” Lord Vaisey whispers harshly. _Speak of the_ _unpleasant_ _devil_ , Merlin thinks. “We have to do something,” he continues. “Do you want to see what she will do when she decides she's done waiting? I don't. We need to uphold our end.”

She? Merlin cannot be certain who it is they speak of, but the cryptic nature of the conversation is enough to warrant concern. He listens in closely.

“It is a sensitive matter, my lord,” says Guy, though his voice is as placative as if they were discussing this week's meal plan. “If we do not proceed with caution, we will have a war against Camelot on our hands. I do not think either of us want that.”

“And if we do not proceed _quickly_ , we will be at war with someone far worse. Tell me, who do you think you will have better odds against?” the steward asks. “A clue: neither. You'd be dead either way, so I suggest you get a grip on your men and take him down quickly and quietly.”

A rock forms in Merlin's throat, dropping to the pit of his stomach, but rather than cause distress, it only pushes him to know more. Sir Guy stops not far from the alcove, his tall silhouette casting a shadow against the curtain, and Merlin shrinks back against the wall, careful not to make a sound. “And what would you have me tell her? She expects word on our progress.”

“La-dee-da-dee-da...always worried about pleasing people, Gisbourne. Grow a spine. Tell her whatever she wants to know. It isn't that difficult. You over complicate things.” His short and stout shadow leaves Gisbourne alone to stand in his wake. Merlin tries not to let the swell of growing anxiety be heard in his heavy breathing, so he holds his breath until Gisbourne turns on his heels and struts in the opposite direction. As soon as the coast is clear, Merlin doesn't take a second to hesitate before he follows after him. If he wasn't sure what was going on and who was behind it before, he will be soon.

* * *

Three simple tasks. That is all he asked of Merlin. Three simple tasks. Yet it is well past the deadline Arthur gave him, and after many failed attempts at latching his own armor, he decided it was time to go on a hunt. The hallways are buzzing with people on various forms of business, but to Arthur's dismay none of them wear a distinctive red scarf and dumb look to match. He hopes for Merlin's sake that he has a good explanation; got locked in a broom cupboard, lost his way in the cellars, or impaled himself on his own stupidity.

A Nottingham guard knocks into Arthur's shoulder as he passes going the opposite direction, immediately giving him his space when he realizes who he has run into, “Forgive me, your majesty.”

“No, it's quite all...right...” Arthur's voice trails off when he becomes distracted by a wound that mars the left side of the soldier's face. He keeps walking, but Arthur stands frozen to the floor, people continuing to pass him by on either side. He can see the guard is bandaged around an entire side of his head, a crimson stain shows through the white dressing, beginning at the hallow of his cheek and ending just beyond the tip of his ear. Before he can fully process the implications, a hand he knows all too well lands on his shoulder.

“I think you might be missing something there.”

Arthur turns to find Gwaine dressed in his full armor, complete with red cape and a grin. He nods, looking down at himself, not even remotely ready for today's task. “I'm working on it. Have you seen Merlin?”

“Avoiding you, is he?”

“For the benefit of his health, I hope not,” says Arthur. Over Gwaine's shoulder, he spots Marian rounding the corner towards them, but when she meets his eyes, she turns about-face and disappears back down the hall she came from. Arthur furrows his brow, “If you see him, tell him to practice his grovelling. He'll be lucky to still have a head on his shoulders once I'm through with him.” With that, Arthur hurries after Marian, though he still manages to hear Gwaine laughing behind him. “Marian!” She is already halfway down the next hall and does not look like she intends to slow her pace anytime soon. He scoots after her, the perks of kingship coming in handy as others part out of his way, and he finally manages to fall into stride beside her. “My lady...running away? That's not like you.”

She smiles, “With all due respect, your majesty, it's been years. How can you actually know what is 'like me?'”

“It's more of an assumption, really,” says Arthur. “You were quite bold last night.”

Marian comes to a halt and Arthur turns to face her. She avoids his gaze, turning her attention to the people around them, “I'm sure I don't know what you're referring to. I was in Knighton last night. I was at home.”

“I'm sure you were,” it is Arthur's turn to smile as he rather enjoys watching some people scramble to keep their feathers unruffled, “And I'm sure you can recount your evening with enthralling details, can't you?”

She peers up at him a moment, “Are you laughing at me?”

“Yes, because as convincing as you might try to be, it doesn't change that I know the truth.”

Letting out a breath, she scans the hallway once more, undoubtedly debating as to what to do now. She finally takes his arm and pulls him to the side of the corridor where they will be out of traffic's way and able to enjoy the sunlight streaming in through the gallery windows. “How can you be so confident in yourself?”

Rather than admit he had remembered the smell of lavender and pine that often wafts through the air when she's around, he goes for something a bit more ambiguous, “Keen instincts.”

“Well...” Marian steps in closer, a smug smile playing on her lips and her voice lowering, “It seems we have that in common. Otherwise I might not have strayed from my usual route, and you would have found yourself on that forest floor, flat on your back, with no one to save you.”

“I don't know that I actually needed _saving_ ,” says Arthur as he folds his arms across his chest, “but I accept the kind gesture nonetheless.”

Marian shakes her head, “There's that pride again. How do you manage to stand tall beneath its weight day after day?”

“You get used to it,” he says. “That and you humble yourself from time to time.” She says nothing, but clasps her hands behind her back, waiting patiently for him to begin showing an example of just that. The expectation on her face makes him let out a little chuckle, and he lowers his gaze a moment to collect his thoughts, eventually bringing it back up to meet hers. He keeps his voice soft to avoid being overheard. “I owe you a great debt, Marian. What you did...risking your life for mine, demonstrating your noble character, and holding your own in combat...it would all be enough to earn you a knighthood in Camelot.”

“It's unfortunate that I live here then, isn't it?” She says, excitement over the prospect gleaming in her eyes, “Me, a knight? I could imagine nothing more thrilling.”

“After all that was said between us yesterday, I thought you deserved to know how highly I think of you. And I would entrust you with my life.” He quickly adds, “If the need should ever arise, I am generally quite capable of taking care of myself.”

“Oh yes, generally, I'm sure you are.”

“And I also owe you for keeping your word,” says Arthur. “Merlin has come round and is back to being his old... _evasive-little-rat_ self.” He checks up and down the hallway, making sure Merlin doesn't try to scurry past him while he's occupied.

“After all my hard work, you go and lose him?”

“He's shiftier than you might think,” he insists, giving her his focus once more, and waiting for her gentle laughter to subside before he speaks again. “I have questions, Marian, and I know you might not be able to answer them here, but--”

“No, I can't,” she pauses to think. “But tonight. Come to my room here in the castle. You were once the holder of all my secrets. I think it's about time I filled you in on a few more.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, “You want me to come to...your room? After dark?”

She rolls her eyes, “I'm not out to steal your _virtue_ , Arthur. We must wait until the cover of night, when less people are walking the halls. Only then will you avoid being seen – oh!” She quickly ducks behind Arthur, grabbing the front of his tunic and guiding him to shield her from sight. At first he thinks she is demonstrating stealth, given their present conversation, but it soon becomes clear that she's hiding from someone who is unknown to, but apparently behind, Arthur.

Two tiny hands find their way to Arthur's legs, spreading his knees open as a brunette mass of curls pokes between them with great jubilation.

“Found you!” Leofrick shouts, pointing up at Marian.

“You did! You win _again_ ,” she says, pretending to be upset about her loss, and reaches down to scoop him into her arms. “But look who I found.” She nods to direct Leofrick's attention at Arthur, who smiles in greeting.

“Arter!” Leofrick exclaims, his pronunciation lacking the finesse of an older child, but his excitement is unwavering. He soon frowns, however, when he looks Arthur over. “Are you not going?”

“Not going?” Arthur looks down at himself to see what it is Leofrick is looking at, then at the boy again. “Am I not going where?”

“With the others...” he says, playing shyly with the beads on Marian's sleeve. “They have all their stuff on. I seen them.”

“Oh, the knights, yes,” Arthur says as he struggles to learn how to interpret and speak the language of a child. He rests a hand on his chest where his chainmail should be. “I'll be going with them, but my manservant seems to have gone missing. He's the one who helps me into my armor.”

Leofrick looks at him, his forehead creased with worry, then up at Marian, “He can't dress himself?”

Marian resists the urge to laugh, settling for a pleasant smile, “Armor is a bit different, Leo, but...” she throws a quick glance at Arthur, then whispers something in Leofrick's ear, who gasps and whips his head around to look at Arthur, his eyes wide.

Arthur can't be sure what Marian said, but he raises a hand to defend his honor, “I know how to dress myself.”

“ _We_ help you,” Leofrick suggests then bites down on his lower lip, swinging his legs in the air with nervous energy.

“You...oh, no, you don't have to--”

“He would like that,” Marian says before he has a chance to turn them down. “If you'd be willing to let us.” Arthur glances between them, hardly able to believe something would mean so much to someone, but he finds himself nodding in agreement anyway.

* * *

With his chainmail on, Arthur sits on a stool in his chambers. The heat intensifies with his added layers, but it is only a matter of time before he is out in the open air, where he hopes a cool breeze waits for him. Behind him, Marian works nimbly, several components already attached, and fastening his gardbrace into place, while Leofrick sits at his feet, playing with Arthur's gloves.

“Is this what it's like?” Leofrick asks so quietly, Arthur and Marian have to lean in a little to catch what he is saying. He keeps his head bowed over the gloves that are ten times too large for his own hands, his cheeks puffing in a thoughtful pout.

“Is this what what's like, darling?” Marian asks as she comes to kneel at Arthur's side. She guides his arm, turning it over, and picks up the lower cannon of his vambrace, starting to secure it into place to protect his forearm.

“Us. Is this what it's like,” he looks up at the two of them, “to have a mama and a papa?” Marian's fingers come to a pause, though they remain poised on the leather buckle. All Arthur can do at first is stare down at this boy; this little boy who is being brought up to rule a kingdom, and all he wants is to have a family. Or to even know what it's like to have one. The notion is not all together unfamiliar, but at least Arthur had been given a father up until recently.

He glances at Marian, who holds his gaze briefly before casting her eyes down, and busying herself with his armor once more. “You know, I wouldn't know,” says Arthur, gaining Leofrick's full attention, “I never knew my mother.”

“Like me...”

“And I lost my father not too long ago,” he feels a gentle squeeze on his arm, and he knows it is Marian's silent condolences.

“That's like me too,” Leofrick says sadly, bowing his head again.

“But you know what else?” says Arthur with a little more cheer, and Leofrick tilts his head to the side, not wanting to come out of his pout quite yet, but intrigued as to what Arthur has to say. “If you allow yourself to be open to it, you will find family in other places. Other people. Knights, advisers, friends...even servants.”

“Is that allowed?”

“That's the beauty of it. You're the king, aren't you? You make the rules.”

“Yeah!” Leofrick pumps a tiny fist into the air, a smile spreading across his face.

Arthur brings his free hand over to rest it on top of Marian's, “And you're lucky. Marian is already a part of your family.” He looks at her, but continues talking to Leofrick, “Don't you ever take her for granted, alright?”

“Never!” The little king climbs to his feet and comes to lean on Arthur's knee, the gloves still clutched in his hands. He bounces on his toes, the light in his eyes bright as ever, “I bet this _is_ what it's like.” Marian leans down to give his dimpled cheek a kiss, while Arthur ruffles his hair.

* * *

Judging by the position of the sun, Merlin knows Arthur will be looking for him. He can almost see the agitation rippling in his jaw now and hear the harried tone in his voice as he calls out for him, only to discover he is on his own. Then again, he's not on his own. Not entirely. The knights are there. But a small part of Merlin hopes that Arthur finds something lacking in his absence, that he might see just how much he does for him. He also, and perhaps more so, hopes that Arthur _doesn't_ notice the lack of sheen on his armor.

Merlin suddenly flattens to the ground, hiding behind a clump of bushes, when Sir Guy glances over his shoulder from atop his steed. The forest is alive with activity, no doubt the animals are eager to enjoy the sun after yesterday's gloom, and it becomes the perfect cover for any twigs Merlin might snap or leaves he might crunch while trailing the man in black.

Fortunately, Sir Guy has kept his pace slow, making Merlin's pursuit on foot far easier, but it makes Merlin wonder just what his plans are. He can only assume that blazing through the forest would draw more attention to the rider than he prefers to have while tending to discrete matters of business, and as Merlin learned hunting with Arthur, a slower pace means a keener ear.

Sir Guy swings his leg over the horse to dismount, creating just enough rustle for Merlin to get to his feet and duck behind a large tree unnoticed. The bark is rough beneath his palms as he leans into them to catch his breath. He edges around the trunk, peering out at Guy, whose back is to him as he leads his horse into a thicker patch of woods. This is it. Merlin can feel the strength of her presence.

He rests his forehead against the tree, calming his mind, and focusing his strength should he end up needing to use his own powers. When enough time has past to ensure distance between them, Merlin leaves his hiding spot to follow in Gisbourne's footsteps.

This patch of wood is dense and unforgiving, thorns snagging on each article of clothing Merlin wears. _It suits her_ , he thinks, and he wonders how Guy managed to make it through with his broader girth, let alone with a horse in tow. Just beyond the thicket, the shrubs and trees give way to a clearing where there sits a tiny hovel, less covert than her home in Camelot, and seemingly less luxurious too. The entire structure is sunken beneath ground level, a small dirt ramp carving a way down to the front door, which is made up of little more than a few slats of wood. On top, a thatched a-frame offers shelter from the sun, but Merlin doubts it did her very much good during yesterday's storms.

Sir Guy must already be inside. His lone horse is tied to a post stuck near the outdoor fire pit, and there is no sign of him anywhere. Merlin skirts the outside of the clearing, careful not to startle the large animal, and double-checking his surroundings for Guy, but when he sees nothing, he stoops down to peer though a thin patch of straw where the roof line meets the muddied ground.

Inside, Sir Guy must hunch in order to accommodate his height, but before Merlin is even able to catch sight of who he stands before, he knows his instincts have not lead him astray.

“His is one boy,” her voice is smooth, controlled, though Merlin knows it is taking some effort on her part to keep it that way. “Though let's face it, you and your men have a legacy of being tripped up by a single man.” She sashays into view, and Merlin must bite his lip to keep from reacting. He knew it was her. All along. But now that he sees her clearly, in the flesh, and undisguised, there is no more room to doubt. He cannot pass it off as paranoia, dismiss it as a trick of the eye, no, she is here most certainly. Dressed head to toe in black, her hair gnarled, and her green eyes hungry. Morgana.

“In order to achieve the greatest benefit,” says Guy, “I urge you to be patient, my lady.”

“The only benefit I desire is to see my dear brother's lifeless body be drained of its last drop of blood,” she seethes through her teeth, her face inches from his, “And I don't need your incompetence to achieve that.”

“You put on a strong act, but you forget two things,” he says, his face drifting closer to hers. “The first being that we have only been set after him for two days. Resulting in two failures, one of which even had your aid. How long have you striven to end him? How many times have you failed?”

Morgana does not back down, snatching the open flap of his coat, and making their noses bump against one another, “It is Emrys who thwarts me! Not Arthur.”

Gisbourne raises an eyebrow, “And you think he has stayed at home this time? Who else could have broken the seal you put on the king's door the night of the fire?”

“No...” she breathes. Even from this distance, Merlin can see the resolve in her eyes waning, but she musters it together and releases him roughly. “ _No_ , he is not here.”

Sir Guy turns his head away from her and toward Merlin, who ducks out of precaution, “Your desperation is clouding your senses, my lady. That is why you cannot feel Emrys.”

Merlin returns to the hole in the thatch, watching as Morgana trembles with what he hopes to be fear. “And the second?” She asks in a whisper.

“What?” Sir Guy asks, bringing his eyes back to her.

“Two things!” She snaps, the topic of Emrys clearly driving her mad. She shoves him roughly as if that will help his recall, but his staunch form barely sways, “You said I am forgetting _two_ things! What is the second!?”

“Ah yes,” he says, his tone as apathetic to her words as his build is to her assaults, “Before you dismiss my men and I, you may want to consider the fact that the death of the king will not result in your immediate accession to the throne of Camelot. Is that not what you ultimately want? To take up your rightful place?”

“It is.”

“Then you will need an army to do it,” he nods in the general direction of Nottingham. “For whatever reason, these knights have bound themselves to Arthur, and I do not think his death will free up their loyalties.”

She draws close to him again, a sardonic smile appearing on her lips, “And you think you and your regime of misfits will prove to be formidable opponents against the Camelot knights?”

“They would stand a better chance against them than you would on your own.”

“Worried about me?” She coos, tracing a fingertip along his stubbled jaw.

He ignores her and continues on with his own thought, “Unless, of course, you happen to have armies lining up to serve you on a whim, then by all means, chose one more to your liking.”

She grabs his face with a sneer, “Do not mock me.” They stare at one another in a moment of tension before Morgana releases him and paces away, “What's next?”

Sir Guy rubs his face where her nails had begun to dig into his skin, “The king and his knights are escorting a caravan of recently collected taxes to the edge of Sherwood Forest today. We know exactly where they'll be and when.”

“Your soldiers will go out to join them under the guise of hooded men, I presume?”

“Of course.”

“I must admit,” says Morgana, “It is quite a masterful plan. Giving you the opportunity to strike without compromising Arthur's trust in you or the steward.” She takes a few steps back toward him, “Tell me, was it your idea or Lord Vaisey's?”

Sir Guy scoffs, shaking his head, “You give the steward too much credit for even _thinking_ he is capable of devising such a scheme.”

“Well then...” she says, the drawl in her voice indicating that she has pushed fury and indignation to the back, and allowed allure to take the forefront of her demeanor again, “I guess I know who to keep by my side when I reclaim the throne.”

Even the stoic Gisbourne cannot hide his surprise, his eyebrows arcing toward his hairline, “My lady?”

“Go now,” says Morgana. “And let's hope you end this day with the shedding of royal blood.”

Sir Guy gives a bow, and it isn't until Merlin hears the creak of the door that he suddenly realizes he has allowed himself to get caught up in the conversation unfolding before him, and neglected to get away before Sir Guy reemerged.

Merlin gets to his feet, whispering, “ _Sc_ _á_ _oil an r_ _é_ _in_!” The horse's tether gently slips from the post and before an unsuspecting Gisbourne can reach his steed, Merlin adds, “ _D_ _ü_ _l capall_!” which sends him galloping off into the woods.

“Hey!” shouts Sir Guy as he runs after his horse, giving Merlin the chance to run the opposite direction and take cover in the woods, but even once he is safely out of sight, he does not stop. He keeps running. There was always the feeling that Arthur was in danger, but now it has become a certainty. Without Merlin there at his side, Arthur and the knights could be walking into an ambush at this very moment, one they might not be able to get out of alive.

He darts around trees, jumps over brush and logs, scrambling up hillsides in the direction of Nottingham as fast as his feet will carry him. Beads of sweat burst from his brow as the sun beats down so fervently, even the canopy of leaves overhead offers little relief. His foot catches on an exposed root, pulling his feet out from under him, and sending him sprawling across the forest floor. He groans, bringing a hand up to touch his chin, which had split open upon impact with the broken limb lying in front of him. When he pulls his hand away, traces of red coat the tips of his fingers.

“Oi!” calls a voice from the top of a nearby hillside. Merlin can hear light footsteps approaching from somewhere behind him. “What's Wart's puppy doing all the way out here?”

There is only one person who calls Arthur by that name. Merlin quickly flips onto his back and freezes, finding himself face to face with Robin Hood, a smirk on his face and a bow readied in his hands with an arrow pointing only several inches from Merlin's nose. “Hello again.”

 


	5. Chapter Five

 

“We have a guest!” Robin shouts. His enthusiasm is akin to that of a child with a secret they so desperately wish to share, but for Merlin, he finds his captor lacks the endearing innocence that often accompanies such charm. Leaves crunch beneath the soles of several pairs of boots as they approach, some hastier while others scuffle along more slowly, but Merlin cannot see through his scarf, which Robin has repurposed as a blindfold. His chin still aches from where he split it on the root, but now he has added several more bumps and bruises from traversing the expanse of the forest blindly with a less than cautious guide.

Without the freedom to use his hands, which are bound tightly behind his back, Merlin tries his best to steady himself as he is shoved to his knees, not wanting to end up face first in the dirt.

“Looks more like a captive to me,” says a male voice, stopping just to the left of Merlin.

“Which makes it all the better when you see who it is.”

“Oh...not again,” another man says, his voice growing louder as he comes to join the group that has gathered. His steps are sloppy, slapping against the ground in a pout. “Master, I thought we agreed to keep outsiders _out_. For our safety and the safety of the camp's location. I really don't feel like moving again.”

“Much, do you see what's on his face?” Robin asks. Despite being unable to see anything apart from vague shadows, Merlin finds himself trying to look at whoever is speaking regardless. It somehow makes him feel apart of things rather than an object at their disposal. There is a long pause before an answer is given.

“A blindfold.”

“Then our safety measures are still intact, aren't they?”

“Well, yes, for now, but we said--”

“How long are you going to make us wait?” It's a woman's voice this time. The thick accent coating her words is not one that Merlin recognizes, and he can only begin to guess where she might have come from. “Show us who he is!”

“Yes!” Her energy seems to spur Robin on, and his hands work quickly at the back of Merlin's head to untie the scarf, but he keeps it covering his face a moment longer, “Ladies and gentlemen...I give you--” and with a flourish, he whips the fabric from Merlin's face, the sudden light stinging at his eyes and making him grimace as he squints against the bright onslaught.

The intensity of the sun begins to diminish as Merlin's eyes adjust, and he can now see that they are not in an intricate lair, full of dozens of outlaws as he expected, but rather in a rustic campsite with three other men and a woman staring down at him. None of their faces seem overly ecstatic.

“I'm not being funny,” says the man to his left, finally breaking the silence with a cock of his eyebrow, “but are we supposed to know who this bloke is?”

Robin takes a slight step back as if the man's words have slapped him. His voice raises in pitch, much like Arthur's does when he is riled up, “ _Yes_ , you're supposed to know! Where have you been?”

“Did you do that to him?” The woman interrupts, studying Merlin's chin from afar. All eyes turn to him, and the weight of their speculation begins to weaken Merlin until he bows his head in an attempt to escape it.

“No, he did that to himself.” Robin is defensive. He shifts his stance, and Merlin can almost feel the agitation radiating off of him. “Do none of you honestly realize who he is?”

A taller, lanky fellow cranes his head forward to get a better look then shakes his head, “Sorry, he doesn't look familiar to me either.”

Robin sighs and stoops down, grabbing Merlin's hair and forcing him to lift his face towards the others, “ _This_...is none other than our dear friend, Merlin.” The motion stretches the skin along Merlin's neck and face, causing the dried blood to crack and allowing fresh, warm blood to begin seeping out from his wound. “Merlin,” Robin repeats more forcefully as if it will help jog their memories.

“Yeah, that still doesn't help me any,” says the man to his left dryly.

The woman, whose eyes never left Merlin's injury, breaks formation, “I'm going to get something to clean him up.” She heads beneath the makeshift roof of branches, leaves, and twine.

“No, Djaq!” Robin calls after her before groaning. Clearly his surprise was not having quite the effect he was hoping for.

“Merlin!” Much shouts, and Merlin instinctively turns toward him, wincing when it causes Robin's hold on his hair to tug against his scalp. The wide-eyed ginger is not calling for him, but rather finally _re_ calling where he has heard the name before. His face is overcome with dread, and he smooths his bandana nervously, “Oh, no...nonononono...tell me this isn't who I think it is.”

A smug smile returns to Robin's face, “He's exactly who you think he is.”

“Would someone tell _me_ who he bloody well is?”

“Allan, this...” Much pauses, covering his mouth as if he might get sick, but then finds the composure to proceed, “This is King Arthur's manservant.”

“That's it?” Allan says. “A bit disappointing, isn't it?”

“Disappointing!?” Robin exclaims in unison with Much, though their tones hold vastly different emotions; Robin's riddled with indignation, while Much's nears panic.

“Terrifying is more like it!” continues Much. “You saw how protective the king was of him when we were in the square. What if he comes looking for him? Not to mention this could put us at war with an entire kingdom. We can barely handle Nottingham as it is. Let him go! I say we just let him go, and then the knight's of Camelot can leave us in peace. And their king. He can leave us in peace too.”

Allan scoffs at his distress, “The man breaks one of your ribs and now he has you petrified. Maybe he is a thing of legend.” He chuckles, looking to the others to join him, but they don't.

“The fact that he is valuable is why it's a good thing we have him in our possession,” offers the lanky man calmly. He glances from Merlin to Djaq as she returns with a few supplies, and stoops down next to Merlin. They make eye contact briefly before she turns her full attention to getting him some proper treatment.

“ _Yes_ ,” Robin throws a grateful hand out towards the man, “Thank you, Will. I knew you of all people would get it.”

“Hey, I get it too,” says Allan. “But it just seems like one of the actual knights might have been more lucrative if it's a ransom we're looking to get.”

“Ah, but we're not. We're looking to get something much more valuable,” Robins takes a knee next to Djaq, his full attention on Merlin now. “We're looking to get information.”

Merlin glances between them, “I don't know how much help I'll be. I make his bed, bring him food, wash his clothes. Arthur tells me very little in the matter of business.”

“I told you a knight'd be better.”

“He's lying,” says Robin without taking his eyes off Merlin. He leans onto the arm propped up on his knee, “You know how I know you're lying?”

“I'm not...”

“You are. Because it's not often a servant is on a first name basis with his king. That is a privilege left for trusted confidantes” the corner of Robin's smirk curves higher, his insistent gaze daring Merlin to contradict him. It's worth a try.

“No,” Merlin says adamantly, hissing when his sudden movement scrapes his chin more roughly against Djaq's rag. “No, that's just how he is. Me, the knights, he prefers it if we all call him Arthur. I'm only obeying his wishes.”

“What a good servant you are.” Robin says as he stands, picking up a branch that would make a perfect walking stick. He leans on it. “You even credit him with more humility than he deserves.”

Merlin tries harder to keep still, aided by Djaq's hand steadying his chin, but his eyes lift to bore into Robin's, “A king willing to get off his throne in order to achieve peace is deserving of more recognition for his modesty than I alone can give.”

“Peace?” Djaq looks to Robin for his reaction, but he does not seem surprised.

“So that's why they're here,” says Will. “To negotiate a treaty?”

Robin turns away from Merlin to address his crew, resting his stick back over his shoulder as a knight might rest a sword, “Yes, Wart is convinced that our capture will earn him the signature of our beloved Lord Vaisey. He has brought along four knights, confident that the five of them can accomplish in days what all of Mercia has failed to for the past several years.” He glances over his shoulder at Merlin, “A humble king, indeed.”

“Wait,” Much's eyes grow into saucers, “they're here to hunt us? What are we going to do?”

“How do you know that's the plan?” asks Will.

Merlin recalls their ride through Sherwood Forest, and the man in the trees, “He heard us talking on our way into Nottingham.” Robin raises his eyebrows at him, and Merlin is graced with a small sense gratification. He is sure it is not often that the notorious outlaw's stealth, or lack thereof, is called into question.

Allan unfolds his arms and takes a step closer to Robin, his brow stern, “If you knew, why were we never told about this before?”

“I was hoping to get a word in with...” Robin stops, obviously unwilling to disclose names in front of Merlin, “... _her_ before raising any alarm. Collect all relevant information first.”

“Oh, yeah, well no rush,” says Allan bitterly, “it's not like the rest of us were in any danger, walking about with Camelot's hunting dogs out after us.”

“Look, you know now, alright?”

“Did you hear anything more?” Djaq asks as she replaces her medical supplies into her basket and stands, resting it on her hip.

“Nothing of importance,” says Robin, giving the stick he found a few twirls before planting it into the ground and leaning on it once more. “A soliloquy about what it means to be king, and some tale about a heartbroken Wart over some girl named Gretel. But what we should be focusing on is...”

Merlin's face flushes with heat. He can no longer hear what Robin is saying, his voice drowned out by the pounding in his ears. No one minimizes Arthur's pain, and no one reduces Gwen to simply some girl. He barely parts his lips and whispers, “ _Brise_ _á_ _dh_ _ì_ _leath_.” The stick supporting Robin's weight snaps in two and sends him hurtling to the ground as the others roar with laughter. Merlin lets a grin peek through.

“Need to cut back on Much's cooking, eh?” Allan jests.

“Yeah, you're looking a bit thick there, Robin,” Will says, ducking with a smile as Robin throws a handful of dead leaves at him.

But Djaq stops the merriment before the others, turning her attention to the woods, “Shh! Quiet! Did you hear that?”

“What?” Much tries to follow her line of sight.

“I heard a branch snap.”

Allan laughs, looking at Robin in the dirt with the two halves of his stick beside him, “I think we all heard that one.”

“No, she's right,” Robin gets to his feet, his smile gone. “Someone's coming.” He keeps his eyes on the forest while he runs to fetch his bow, readying it with an arrow. The others arm themselves as well, naturally forming a circle to protect one another's backs. Merlin checks the surrounding area with eager anticipation, hoping that he will see a billowing red cape, or five, appear through the dense canvas of green foliage.

“I didn't hear the alarm go off,” whispers Much. He barely gets the word out when the giant that nearly choked Arthur to death comes bounding over a hill crest. Merlin lets out a thwarted breath.

Robin immediately smiles, “Little John!” Merlin scrunches his face at that. _Little_ John?

“There's a tax convoy heading north on York Road,” says Little John without a minute to waste. He comes to a stop, huffing, and Merlin is sure running takes a man of that size extensive effort. “Its escorts wear the Pendragon crest.”

The smile on Robin's face broadens, “Lads, I think it's time we offered a proper introduction.”

* * *

Along the wooded road, the buggy lumbers along at a pace that has bored the knights, who have taken to small talk to pass the time. It jostles to and fro with every bump, the clanking of coins against one another ringing every now and then, and though Arthur has urged the carriage drivers to pick up the momentum, they insist that the weight of the load will crack a wheel if they are not careful. He can hardly concentrate on the conversations at hand with the threat of robbery lingering in the forefront of his mind. There is no doubt the treaty will be forgotten if he loses the steward's fortune to anyone, Hood or other. His attention snaps back to the knights when he hears mention of the name.

“Robin Hood has his merry men,” says Gwaine from the back of the cortege, swaying leisurely with the gait of his horse, “Maybe we ought to find a livelier title for us, aye gents?”

Elyan glances over his shoulder, “Like what?”

“Oh, I don't know...King Arthur and the...jolly knights.”

“Of all the words you could have chosen...jolly?” Arthur laughs with the others. “That is sure to strike reverence into the hearts of Albion.”

“We'd be remembered, wouldn't we?”  
“I think we're bound to be remembered either way,” says Leon, and though the words cause Arthur to fall silent, it brings a longing grin to Gwaine's face.

“I wonder what the history books will say about me,” he muses.

“Sir Gwaine,” Elyan begins with the far off whimsy of a poet, “A knight with locks more luscious than a lion's mane...”

“And the breath of a thousand ales,” chimes in Percival, “acquired from his many conquered quests to taverns near and far...”

Arthur smiles, and all eyes turn to Leon, who seems taken aback by the sudden shift in their focus, “Uh, yes, and...feet fuming with the stale odor of a festering...badger.” He finishes with a furrowed brow, as though uncertain of where any of those words had come from, but throwing their heads back, the knights and their king let out unrestrained howls of hilarity, even Gwaine, whose offense cannot stifle the overwhelming merriment of his comrades, chuckles along.

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur notices movement in the brush that their raucous has provided a cover for. His laughter ceases as a hooded man emerges, bow at the ready. A pump of adrenaline shoots through his veins.

“Shields!” Arthur shouts. He snatches his own from his saddle and raises the golden dragon that emblazons the metal just in time to deflect an arrow that seemed to be aimed directly at his head. The knights take up arms and rear their horses into formation, flanking Arthur and facing the small band of men that now stands at the edge of the road.

Robin smiles as he surveys the warriors atop their steeds. He spreads his arms in a welcoming gesture, “No need to stop the fun on my account. I was just going to give you a bit of a shave, Wart. Nothing fatal.” He rubs the stubble on his jaw, then steps forward to squint at Arthur, “Although...it looks like that beard has yet to come in, eh?”

“Perhaps we ought to give you a shave,” says Gwaine vehemently, adjusting his grip on the hilt of his sword, “After all you've done, you dare to waltz up to us like a peacock on display?”

“Gwaine,” Arthur says in an attempt to calm him. He dismounts from his horse, a move that puts him more vulnerably in front of his foe, and makes the knights rigid with tension. “I gather you know why we're here, Hood. You've made that quite clear.”

“Have I? Then let me make something else clear,” he says, glancing around at the other outlaws, “We're not here to surrender. We're not here to make amends. We're here...”

“...because this is an ambush.” The sudden rise in pitch makes Arthur furrow his brow. That is the voice of a woman. Apparently disguising one's gender is more common in Mercia than it is in Camelot, he thinks. He and the knights start risking glances to the treeline, preparing for anymore bandits that might come to join them, but the forest seems still.

“But we have a set of rules,” says Robin. “Now _normally_ we'd say...”

“...tell us what you've got,” a man finishes for him, nodding towards the carriage.

“Be honest with us,” the woman warns.

The small man with a bandana, who Arthur remembers fighting in the square, steps up beside Robin, “And we'll take a tenth...”

“...so the poor can eat.”

“Lie!” says the giant, who Arthur also remembers all too well.

“Or resist,” the bandana adds.

“And we take it all,” Robin says definitively, a smug grin playing on his lips as he looks to Arthur for his reaction. Arthur can only scan the group a moment, his eyebrows raised, impressed at the level of their coordination.

“I see you've done this before.”

“But as I said...” Robin takes a few more steps towards Arthur, who can hear the creak of leather gloves as his knights tighten their grips on their swords, “that's _normally_ what we say.”

“And what do you say now? Or do we get an encore?” Arthur asks. “Have a skit for special occasions, do you?”

“I do love a musical number,” says Gwaine. “Perhaps you could add in one of those next time.” The conceit has vanished from Robin's face, and he wets his lips to give himself time to collect his next course of action – one Arthur makes sure to be ready for.

Robin points to the carriage, “That money belongs to the people. Hard working people who are starving because of the ally _you_ so desperately seek. And we're here to take it back. All of it...your majesty.” He bows to Arthur.

“I'm afraid I can't allow--” Arthur cannot even get the sentence out before Robin straightens his posture and strikes the nock of his bow underneath Arthur's chin, knocking him off his feet, and sending his shield skidding across the ground. He was not ready after all. He meets the hard earth with a grunt. Behind him, the horses whinny, his knights shout, and subsequent thuds can be heard as they dismount. Boots scatter about him, metal clashes against metal, and ricocheted arrows fall dormant to the dirt below.

Robin levels another arrow on him, “I'd rather not do it this way.”

“Nor would I,” Arthur redirects Robin's shot with a swift kick, sending the arrow flying into the treetops. He sits up to grab the belly of the bow, and thrusts it – along with Robin – to the ground beside him, wrenching the bow from Robin's grasp as he gets to his feet. Robin unsheathes his own sword and stands to face off against Arthur. “You don't have to lose your life at my hand. Yield and I can ensure you will be given a fair trial.”

It is humorless, but Robin laughs, “Vaisey rules with a bias head and an intolerant heart. There is nothing 'fair' about anything he does.” He brings his sword down towards Arthur, who counters it with a block and pushes him away to follow with a swipe of his blade. Robin jumps back to avoid it. The bandit's words come out staggered amidst their lunges and parries, “I admit I was shocked to hear you seek an alliance with him.” He dodges a blow. “You are a star in the sky, Wart. Everyone looks to you in admiration.” Arthur ducks, blocks, and strikes before pushing Robin away again, who continues to speak, “Quite a leap from our childhood, but given the acclaim surrounding your name, I thought you had managed to escape the corruption of your father. Apparently I was wrong.”

Arthur clenches his teeth before striking out with a cry of rage. Robin blocks the attack, but stumbles back. With an ornamental twist of his sword, Arthur advances on him slowly, and they size one another up, their breaths baited with anticipation of the next blow. Arthur strikes from below. Blocked. From the right. Blocked. From above. Below. The left. Blocked. Blocked. Blocked. Their blades lock in a stalemate between their chests.

Stepping in close, Arthur seethes through his teeth, “Speak again of things you do not know and I will cut you down right here.”

“I do not say these things out of malice, but out of truth!” Robin bites his lower lip, struggling to keep Arthur's sword at bay. “Actions speak for the heart!” Arthur can feel Robin's arms quiver with fatigue, but he doesn't pull back. Their resolute eyes do not waver from one another. “And I was witness to his cruelty! As were the druids, the sorcerers, the innocent who lost their lives out of mere suspicion, _Marian_! If you are a king of the people, then _listen_ to what they are saying!”

Arthur twists their blades free. He leaves no spare moment for Robin to rest, lunging at him to strike again from above. Blocked. From the right. Blocked. With every swing, Robin retreats a step or two and Arthur advances, the pair dueling their way into the cover of the forest. From below. Blocked. Left. Blocked. Right. Left. Right. Above. Below. Blocked. Robin kicks Arthur in the gut and follows immediately with a swing, which Arthur bends back to avoid, the tip of the blade grazing his armor with a sharp screech. They both take a step back, readying their swords.

“You're proving the wrong thing to the wrong man,” Robin huffs, clearly running out of air. He keeps both hands wrapped tightly around the hilt of his sword. “Don't prove your worth as an ally to Vaisey, and go along with his schemes. Prove to me and to the people that you are a man of honor. Prove to us that you are not your father, but that you are merciful and just.”

“I hear your words and would have them be sincere, but you judge others with limited knowledge and through speculation of their hearts,” says Arthur, taking a step forward and throwing Robin off balance once more as he backs his way into the base of a hillside, the change in elevation causing him to teeter briefly. “Now I will judge you the same.”

“Master!” Arthur risks a glance over his shoulder to see the small man wearing a bandana over his ginger hair running towards them. He is holding his side, pain etched across his face, but it is worry in his eyes rather than a plea for help.

“Do not interfere, Much!” Robin gives him a reassuring nod before turning his gaze back to Arthur, “Go on then.” He knocks his blade lightly against Arthur's, sending a hollow ring through the thick air between them. “Judge me.”

“You flout the law and encourage anarchy, spurring on the steward's paranoia, and therefore hindering any hope the innocent have at reasoning with him. You talk of bias and intolerance and yet you mock, humiliate, and terrorize the wealthy. You deceive and charm with words to keep friendships and gain trust, including mine. Is that not what you were doing just now?” Arthur motions with his sword to the area around them, bringing it back to point at Robin. “You are right, Robin, a man's actions reveal a great deal about a man's true nature. I don't deny that. And if we take a look at your recent activity, I would say...that you are a spineless failure, elevating a new set of ideals that he can thrive in to bring himself the glory that would otherwise be withheld.”

The bandit in front of him visibly boils with fury until he can hold it in no longer. He yells out, striking his sword at Arthur, who blocks it and grabs a tight hold of Robin's wrist.

“Your attempts on my life and the lives of those around me have sealed your fate, Hood. I gave you a chance to surrender and you did not take it. You leave me no choice,” Arthur hooks his leg around Robin's, swiftly pulling his feet out from under him and disarming him as he falls flat on his back against the hillside. With a sword in each hand, Arthur presses one firmly against the bandit's chest while the tip of the other one presses into his throat just beneath his jaw. A drop of blood begins to pool against the blade.

“Merlin...” Robin chokes out. At this very instant in time, he manages to say the one word that will peak Arthur's interest enough to still his blade.

He furrows his brow, easing off on his throat ever-so-slightly, “What?”

“Missing a servant, by chance?”

Arthur throws the spare sword away, kneeling down, pressing one knee into Robin's gut and the other into his bicep, withdrawing a grimace of pain as he pins Robin's arm to the ground. It is no longer the tip of the blade pressed to his throat, but the length of it. “What have you done with him?”

“Nothing yet,” says Robin. “Spare my life and the lives of my crew and it will stay that way.”

“Prove to me that he is in your possession.”

“I thought you might say that.” Robin gestures with his free hand, “May I?” Arthur eases off just enough to give him the space required to bring his fingers to his lips and let out a piercing whistle. Arthur glances around, his heart pounding with the possibility that it is a signal to unleash more men upon them, but instead the four bandits fighting his knights abandon their battles and come to stand at Robin's side, the knights follow suit, settling protectively behind Arthur. They seem just as confused as he does, though he is pleased none of them seem to be injured beyond repair. Beyond his knights, he can see the carriage is gone, and he internally shakes his head at the cowardice of the drivers who left them to fend for themselves.

One of the bandits notices Robin's sword lying in the grass and decides to take this pause to retrieve it, but he is stopped by Gwaine, who lazily lifts his sword to point it at him, “Touch that and I'll run you through.”

“Leave it, Allan,” Robin instructs from his place on the ground.

Allan lifts his free hand to show his innocence, backing away, “Sorry, thought I might do a bit of housekeeping while we wait.”

“What are we waiting for exactly?” Gwaine asks. “Reinforcements? Because I think you might be overestimating our generosity.” Arthur thinks about admonishing him for his cheek, but on second thought he decides to survey the area as the same thought has been nestled in his mind as well.

“Djaq, go see what's taking Will so long, would you?” Robin asks, shifting uncomfortably beneath Arthur's sword.

But before she can take a step, Leon aims his crossbow at her, “No one is going anywhere.”

“Why don't you aim that thing somewhere else, mate?” Allan says, a readied bow in his hands and pointed at Leon.

“Do you really want to get into this again?” Percival asks, adjusting his stance in preparation to defend Leon if needed. One by one the bandits and knights raise their weapons, each pointing at a different opponent in an attempt to cover any threats. Arthur simply keeps a look out from his place on top of Hood, not confident enough in the integrity of outlaws to order his men's weapons be lowered. The crunch of leaves and shuffling of feet come over the ridge, drawing Arthur's eyes to the top of the hill where a man escorts a bound and gagged Merlin.

“Merlin!” Elyan yells, and all of the knights tense up for a fight, the bandits instantly mimicking their fervor.

Arthur stares up at his friend, unable to see if there is any apparent abuse, “Merlin, are you hurt!? Give me a nod or a shake of your head!” Though Merlin shakes his head, Arthur still finds himself skeptical. He turns his attention to Hood, “We let all of you go, I forfeit a chance at a treaty, and you give me one servant. Tell me how that is a fair trade.”

“It worked once,” says Robin.

“I gave you one last victory, upon my word I will not give you another.”

“Very well.” Robin pretends to think, “The alternative is you kill me, Will kills Merlin, and what's left of our two bands battle it out to the death right here, right now. For good or ill, we can end this all in a matter of minutes. Or...”

Arthur cocks an eyebrow, “I'm listening.”

“You let us go, we let Merlin go, and you come to Locksley in two days time,” says Robin. “If you do not agree with what we are doing there, then I will personally walk myself up to the gallows in Nottingham and seal your treaty for you.” A few murmurs of protest come from the surrounding outlaws, but Robin's face remains strong. “Do we have a deal?”

Arthur mulls this over for a few minutes, and wishes he had more time. Time to think and time to consult. This all lays on his shoulders. “You will keep your word?”

“I swear on...Marian's life. You have my word.” There is a moment, however brief, when the two men's eyes connect and they understand the weight of the pact that has been made between them.

“Stand down,” Arthur says so casually, the knights almost don't recognize it as an order. It isn't until Arthur puts away his sword and helps Robin to his feet that they begin to lower their own weapons. Reluctantly.

The bandits start to make their way up the hill, and it is clear by some of the limping and grimaces that they are eager for this encounter to be finished. But Will, still in possession of Merlin, does not move to untie him.

“Release my manservant,” says Arthur. “You gave me your word.”

“Yes, on Marian's life,” Robin says as he gets to the top of the hill and turns to look down upon the men of Camelot. “Seeing as she is in the castle with you, ready for the slaughter should I break my word, I think it only fair for me to hang on to this lad to ensure you keep yours.”

“That was _not_ part of the deal,” Arthur quickly draws his sword again, though he knows he would be at a great disadvantage attacking from the lower ground.

“It is now,” says Robin. “Don't worry, Wart, I'll see no harm comes to him.” The outlaws disappear from the top of the ridge, pulling Merlin along with them.

“No! Hood!” Arthur clambers up the hillside, but only gets a few steps before Leon breaks through to his senses.

“It's no use, sire,” he says. “Let them go.” Arthur turns and spears his blade furiously into the ground where Robin once laid at his mercy.

“We'll get Merlin back,” says Elyan.

Arthur strides back down the hill, jerking his sword from the ground as he goes. He says nothing, but continues through the forest toward where their horses wander aimlessly near the road. The knights offer no more words of encouragement, just follow suit by mounting their saddles and riding down the road, now riddled with dust, in the wake of their king.

* * *

Sometimes in life there is little more relief than the setting of the sun. The end of a day. When the veil is drawn, closing off the world and leaving all worries to be picked back up at another time, but only after one's mind has been allowed to rest, and the mire of strife has been washed clean from one's body. It was indeed a perfect evening for a hot bath, but it was not as relaxing as Arthur had hoped it would prove to be without Merlin's familiar rituals, instead he had to break in a new servant bestowed to him by Lord Vaisey upon hearing of Merlin's absence. Simon. A twitchy fellow, skittish, sent into a nervous frenzy at Arthur's every word, like a rabbit trapped in a cage with a wolf. When he asked for his towel, Arthur was certain the poor boy was going to leap from his boots as he flew to deliver it immediately into his hands.

Whatever the case may be concerning Simon's jitters, Arthur is glad to be rid of him for the night. He walks through the halls of Nottingham Castle, eager for more enjoyable company. He was tempted to join the knights at the tavern, but it seemed more prudent to update the steward on the day's events, and heaven knows several minutes with that man will suck you dry of any desire to socialize with another human being for the rest of the day. But he agreed to meet Marian, and he will not leave her waiting. Several minutes of solitude and a bath seems to have been enough to revive him from the steward's disapproval. He only hopes he will not receive the same from Marian.

Stopping at her door, he glances around for anyone who might see him, before facing it again. His eyes flickering to the handle then the intricate carvings etched in the wood. Did she intend for him to knock? As a covert operation, he is not sure he can risk being left in the hall to wait for her to answer. On the other hand, he could wind up in a much more startling situation if he were to walk into a lady's room unannounced. He learned that the hard way growing up with Morgana. Taking the safer route, he raps his knuckles lightly against the door to her chambers, taking special care not to disturb others in the hall who may be, as he hoped to time it, already asleep.

“She's not there.”

Arthur nearly jumps out of his skin, cursing Simon for passing along his nerves, and turns to find Sir Guy standing there in the middle of the hallway with his arms folded tightly across his chest as if he materialized out of thin air. His watchful eyes surmise the worst from beneath the shadow of his brow. Arthur considers playing dumb about the fact that he stands in front of Lady Marian's door in the middle of the night, but unfortunately Guy is too clever for that.

“Oh,” Arthur says lamely, then adds, “Do you know where I might find her?”

Sir Guy takes a few steps toward him, jerking his head to the side, “The king apparently had a nightmare. She'll be in his chambers, busy coddling him to sleep for quite some time. I hope you didn't need her for anything of urgency.” There is an edge of accusation in his voice that makes Arthur shift uncomfortably. He dismisses it with a wave of his hand.

“No, not really.”

“Well that can't be true, can it?” Guy glances at Marian's door then back at Arthur. “You've come so late, surely you have a pressing matter that needs seen to.”

“It's...my eyes,” says Arthur as he bows his head to rub one of his eyes. Neither of them burn, but they have recently begun to hold a dull ache from the nuisances of the day. “I'm afraid they're acting up again, and I thought she might have a remedy.”

“I would think the infirmary would be a better place to start for that.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows and points at him, “Quite right. I'll...go there now.” He turns to leave, but Sir Guy speaks again, stopping him in his tracks.

“I would be more cautious, your majesty.” Arthur faces him, and his annoyed drawl continues, “Nottingham is bountiful in very little, but it has been overflowing with talk of yourself and Lady Marian in recent times.”

“Has it?” says Arthur, already not keen on where this conversation is heading. “What have they been saying that has you so worried?”

“Oh, I think you could offer more insight where that is concerned,” Guy looms closer. “She seems to capture your attention whenever it is not on Hood.”

“We're friends,” Arthur makes sure his diction is clear. “We have been since we were quite young. Nothing more.”

“Good,” he says. “Because her affections are already spoken for.” It is the way Guy must break their eye contact to say these words that makes Arthur confident in who he is referring to. The pools of grey mist wander over the hall, avoiding Arthur's gaze, as if it will prevent the feelings inside from spilling out. Jealousy? Sincerity? Even the coldest men must retain a warm heart to keep it beating.

Arthur breaks the silence before it grows too disquieting, “Well anyone in pursuit of Marian need not be threatened by me."

“No, I should think not,” Guy suddenly looks at him again, “because pain has left its mark on you, hasn't it? Made you decent. You know what it is to have another man steal the adoration of the one you care for. And you would not wish that on anyone.”

Staring up at the man in black, it occurs to Arthur that perhaps he is not as far above these masked men as he thought. He ridicules them for their deceit and lack of authenticity, and yet here he stands, wearing a porcelain mask of his own. One that portrays still waters of mirrored glass on the surface, but only masquerades the tremulous currents of his breaking heart beneath. In this sea of masks, he is not drowning, he is one of them.

“No,” he concedes coolly, “I would not.”

Sir Guy grins, “There. A decent man if there ever was one.” He claps Arthur's shoulder a little too roughly, nearly making the young king stagger to the side. “I take it you remember the way to the clinic?” Without waiting for an answer, Sir Guy continues on his way, an air of satisfaction in his strut as he rounds the bend and out of sight.

Glancing around the vacant hall, with only shadows to keep him company now, Arthur lets out a breath. He rubs the perceptual knit in his brow, knowing sleep will do him a great deal of good, and suddenly he can think of nothing more pleasing than resting his head down on his pillow and escaping his plights if even for just a few hours.

* * *

A king's bed chambers becomes his sacred citadel. A place where he can allow himself to be nothing more than a man, free of the weight of the crown, and where the mask can be flung aside to bare his true self. But it is not a place that is completely impervious. In Camelot, Arthur has been woken from sleep numerous times due to pressing matters of state, and each time it taints his personal sanctuary a little more. Here in this guest suite, however, the darkness that suffocates him during the day becomes a security blanket at nightfall, stealing him into the void of sleep that cannot be disturbed. Or so he thought.

Barely conscious, Arthur hears the light tap of someone setting something on his bedside table. He stirs in an attempt to rouse himself from his slumber, but it is the hand that clamps over his mouth that jars him into action. He grabs his intruder's wrist and flings them over his body, pinning them to the bed with their hands immobilized above their head.

The tap he heard must have been a brass candle holder against the wood tabletop because its light flickers across his linens, which lay in disarray, and illuminates a halo of brunette curls scattered across his pillow and surrounding a face he did not expect to see.

“Do you welcome all intruders with such intimacy?”

“Marian!” Arthur quickly releases her and gets off of her, moving to sit back on his feet. She pushes herself to sit up, readjusting the hem of her skirts, which had fallen up to expose her knees. “I'm sorry, I wasn't expecting you.”

“I would be more concerned if you _were_ expecting me and chose to greet me thusly,” she smiles, her voice is just above a whisper. It brings back memories of their nights conspiring as children, scheduling an infamous rendezvous in the late hours to sneak to the kitchens and sample the pastries for the next morning's breakfast.

“I tried to come to your room,” says Arthur, “but I ran into Sir Gisbourne, and well, he's always a delight, isn't he?”

“I suggested we meet after nightfall so we could avoid that problem, but perhaps you will need a few lessons in the art of clandestine maneuvers first.”

“There is nothing wrong with my maneuvers,” Arthur assures her, though he forgets to keep his voice low. He glances back at his door, where several guards stand just outside, then looks at her again, furrowing his brow when he sees she's smiling. “What?”

“Can the great Arthur Pendragon have no faults?”

“I have plenty of faults,” he says. “Just none that involved a lack of military competence.”

“No, of course not,” says Marian. “How foolish of me to suggest such a thing.”

“Had Guy not come along, and had you been in your room as discussed, it would have been executed flawlessly on my part.” Arthur studies her as she laughs and shakes her head, refusing to warrant his arrogance with a response. Her gentle features and kind eyes. It is difficult to imagine them yearning after the likes of such a severe and unforgiving man. “He is very fond of you.”

Her smile falters slightly, looking down at her hands, “Yes, I know.”

“But you don't return the sentiment...”

She glances at him again before slipping off of the bed, “Sir Guy is not all together disagreeable. I would go so far as to say he has his own charming qualities, but his integrity sways too easily beneath the pressures of the corrupt.” She paces across the room slowly, looking for something unknown to Arthur. “Were he to find his footing and fight for the things he knows in his heart are right, then I might consider him further. As it is, I see no remorse in him for the injustices he has seen through to fruition. A passing regret, maybe, but it turns to acceptance all too easily.” Rather than crane his neck to follow her as she walks behind him, he too gets off the bed, standing to face her as he hangs onto one of the bed's four posts. She stoops down to pick something up from the floor and walks to him, “They call me The Night Watchman, Arthur. That's what the mask is for. How could I ever be with the very man I work endlessly against to right his wrongs?” She presses a wad of cotton against his bare chest.

He takes it into his hands, realizing that it is his discarded tunic from earlier that night, and cocks an eyebrow at her, “Causing you a distraction, am I?”

While her smile is kept at bay, the mirth is apparent in her eyes, “You flatter yourself.”

Arthur grins, but then works to orient his shirt in the dim lighting, “The Night Watchman...is that persona affiliated with Robin Hood?”

“No,” she says, taking a step back and folding her arms. “Robin is a dear friend, I have already confessed that, but I fear working outside of the system will only cause more trouble for the people he is fighting to defend. Rebellion, theft, it creates more rules, more restrictions, and inadvertently gives the people more crimes to commit, whether they intend to or not. Take Brom for example.” This captures Arthur's full attention, and he stops fiddling with his tunic to look at Marian. She continues, “Robin saved him and Catraine from the gallows, which is wonderful, but what now? They, too, are outlaws now, against their will, and will be executed if they are caught. I've discovered they have taken refuge in a small village south of Kirklees along the river Trent, so if the soldiers come looking for them they can flee by water or by land through the forest. That is no way to live a life. To raise a proper family.” She takes the tunic from his hands, orienting it in seconds, and slipping it over his head for him. Arthur slips his arms through the sleeves, situating it over his chest and shaking his head as he tries to think of a different solution.

“What would you have done?”

She rubs her forehead with a sigh, “I would have worked within the system from the start. The people who accept my food and supplies are not accepting stolen goods or things bought with stolen money. They are free of guilt.”

“If it is all legal, then why the mask?”

“Because the steward is starving and frightening the people of this kingdom into submission, and legal or not, I am creating a tear in his system,” she says. “If he ever discovered it was me, he would have me executed for treason, insubordination, _anything_ regardless of whether I am actually guilty of it. The citizens cannot be sure they will last another day, and Lord Vaisey feeds off of that desperation. They are suffering. Robin and his men help secure their survival, but they cannot do it forever, and I cannot do this alone. And in our greatest time of need, here you come with your gallant knights.” She rests a hand on his arm, her eyes that hold the same grey mist as Gisbourne's, yet thrive with a selfless compassion, plead up at him, “Can you not see that we need you, Arthur?”

Arthur searches her eyes, but he lifts his gaze over her head to the darkness that closes in around them, taking in a deep breath as the gravity of what she is asking him to do constricts his lungs like the scorching heat of the inferno's inescapable smog.

“My men and I came to Nottingham to secure a peace treaty with Mercia,” he finally says, meeting her intense stare. “But...” Her grip on his arm tightens, this three letter conjunction giving her reserved hope. “...perhaps I have failed to acknowledge that it is not one man of status that makes a kingdom, rather it's the citizens as a whole. It is their allegiance I desire, their friendship I strive to earn, and their enemies that I and Camelot will protect them against.”

“And if that enemy should happen to be the one sitting on the throne in the heart of their very own kingdom...what then?”

“If this enemy is proven to be who you say he is,” Arthur brings up a hand to cup the side of her face, nodding with reassurance, “then Camelot shall take up their arms.”

Marian beams, her eyes beginning to water at his words, but she closes them to keep the tears from spilling over and rests her forehead against his chest. He holds her close, wrapping a secure arm around her and cradling the back of her head, allowing this strong woman to give into the hardships that have preyed upon her and cry in the security of knowing that she is not alone.

 


	6. Chapter Six

 

It is routine that Arthur should have to take part in a notably torture-some social affair from time to time, but he loathes it when it happens to be at breakfast. There is no time to mentally prepare himself for the day, and while he may be awake, his ability to small talk lies dormant somewhere in the recesses of his still slumbering mind.

Lord Vaisey sits at the head of the table, an array of freshly baked bread, entire fillets of fish, various makes of sausages, porridge, fruit, and more cheeses than Arthur knew existed arranged before him. At the steward's right hand sits King Leofrick in a chair that has been altered to suit his height deficit, with Marian as a buffer, and it comes as no surprise that the steward would not be fond of children, let alone one that will one day overrule his authority. To Lord Vaisey's left, Arthur has the misfortune of being seated next to Sir Guy, who – if possible – lacks more cheer in the morning than he manages to the rest of the day, though his attention seems to be not on Arthur and the topics of conversation at hand, but on the woman across the table from him, leaving Arthur to be the solitary audience member for the steward's endless blather. There is a brief lull in his monologue, and Arthur seizes it as an opportunity to divert their talk in another direction.

“My Lord, I was thinking...once I have entered into a treaty, I like to do all I can for my allies,” he says, taking a sip of his drink. Across the table, Leo echoes the gesture, but lacks the same grace, sending water dribbling down his chin. Arthur smiles, but continues, “I wondered if there might be a way Camelot can assist in easing the strife of your citizens?” He exchanges a brief glance with Marian, who hides her faint smile with a sip of her morning drink.

“My, my,” says the steward, “ink hasn't even stained the page and we're already discussing dual cooperation. I like your confidence, don't you, Gisbourne?” The stern man makes a noncommittal grunt before taking a rather large bite of his porridge. “Right,” he continues. “In answer to your question, my dear king: no. Because what might look like undeserving hardship is in fact self-inflicted shortcomings brought about by an apathetic view towards the meaning of labor. If my people understood the importance of dedicated work, as yours do, I am sure they could pay their taxes and still have more than enough to thrive.”

Marian opens her mouth to speak, but by the fire in her eyes, he knows whatever she intends to say will be a mistake. Arthur leans in towards the steward, encroaching in on Sir Guy's personal space and withdrawing a sneer from him, quickly speaking over her, “Your taxes, yes, I have been meaning to ask you...you see, my father rarely allowed me to take part in fiscal discussions, so I would love to receive a bit of insight from yourself on the matter if you're willing to share it with me.”

Sir Guy watches him carefully from the corner of his eye, not daring to turn in his direction as it would bring their faces into a proximity that would not be of comfort to either of them. His brow knits together, “Is there a need? Camelot is known for being quite prosperous.”

“Perhaps it can be even more so.”

“Of course it can be!” the steward shouts. “Don't put a cap on wealth, Gisbourne. Your blasé attitude is exactly why you'll never go anywhere in life.” Sir Guy leans back in his chair, lifting his eyes to the ceiling, and Arthur can only guess he is searching for restraint. “Except the grave, of course, I'm afraid we're all destined to go there. Some sooner than others thankfully.”

Arthur and Leo both take a bite of bread, but the little boy stops mid-chew, his eyes widening at the steward's words. He looks around the table to see if anyone else is as alarmed by it as he is. When no one is, he resumes chewing his food, throwing weary glances at Vaisey every now and then.

“There are a few key things to remember when acquiring adequate funds for your kingdom,” the steward says with a toothy grin. He holds up a finger, “The first is that while, yes, they are your people, you love them, you'll die for them, blah-dee-blah-dee-blah, all things noble...in return they are using you.” Fluttering his eyelashes, his face melts into that of a sappy girl, and the tone in his voice shifts to match, “Oh, but they're innocent! They would never lie or deceive. They're hearts are made of gold and they can do no wrong!” Leo scrunches his nose with a giggle as he watches the steward's display. He is the only one, however, to find it amusing. Now pointing at Marian, Vaisey's voice deepens again, “That is what she would say.”

“My Lord, you cannot--”

“Marian...” Guy interrupts her before she can get any farther, and, for once, Arthur finds he is thankful for the contributions of the man sitting beside him.

“But I say this: _False_!” Lord Vaisey slams his hand down on the table, creating a deafening silence over the room that is only interrupted by a soft hiccup from Leo, who must have been startled in the midst of taking a drink. “Mankind, above all, relies on survival instincts. When they are not simply being lazy to safeguard their energy and defend against the wear and tear of their bodies, they are hoarding, hiding, lying, thieving, whatever it takes to last another day with the least amount of toiling. They will play to your sympathies, tug on your heartstrings, feign distress to get you to provide for and serve them. They are leeches that will suck the life force from your kingdom if you are not careful.”

“Camelot is not mine,” says Arthur. “The kingdom _is_ that of the people. I should think it only fair that they expect some return out of what they put into it.”

“Yes, exactly!” the steward exclaims before he has entirely swallowed his latest gulp of ale, the liquid spilling out over his cracked lips. “But they often expect far _more_ than they are willing to contribute. They claim they cannot afford, say, ten percent, and yet they expect all of our precious resources to be at their fingertips and pristine upkeep within the towns. It is a scam that would drain me of my profits!” He exchanges a look with Guy, then tries to add seamlessly, “That would, of course, go towards rebuilding the churches and fortifying our armies.”

Arthur turns his attention back to his plate, unable to maintain eye contact with someone who thinks so poorly of people, and obviously so much of himself. The more he speaks, the less sense he makes, but fortunately for Arthur, the steward's love for his own voice is starting to serve as an advocate for Marian's earlier claims against him. Arthur picks at his food, noticing Leofrick picking up his fork to do the same, as he pushes further, “What do you suggest to overcome their deceit?”

“Ah, yes, I was just getting to that. Though this is where the little miss will get her do-gooder garters in a bind. Watch her face when I say this, it's really quite delightful,” he licks his jeweled tooth as he turns his attention to Arthur, speaking very deliberately, “Tough love. Don't be afraid to make an example of one disobedient child. Because one snippity-snip of a tongue or swing from the gallows and the rest of the loafers will fall into line. They will suddenly be able to afford those taxes they claimed they couldn't before.” He stares at Arthur another moment before whipping his head around to look at Marian, who keeps a stone face while focusing her eyes on her plate of half-eaten food. “Aw, nothing to say? I know you have something to say. Go on. Come, come. What is it? Where is that fire and useless passion that drives me up the wall, hmm?”

“I have been teaching her self-control, my lord, do not goad her and ruin my efforts,” says Sir Guy, observing her intently.

“My Lord, if you'd please, Lady Marian has done nothing wrong, and is undeserving of being mocked in this fash--” but before Arthur can finish her defense, Marian fails to hold it in any longer.

“They cannot _suddenly afford_ anything,” she says with a rising flush in her cheeks.

“Ah, yes, here we are!” the steward beams, propping his chin eagerly atop his fist to watch her intently, pretending to hang on her every word. As an afterthought, he whispers over to Arthur, “Watch. This is where it gets good.”

Not caring whether he is finished mocking her or not, Marian begins speaking over him, “They are giving up precious income that would otherwise be used to put food on their family's table to assure themselves that they will not have to watch one of their loved ones die at your hand, and as a result are having to suffer through watching their loved ones starve to death instead.”

Lord Vaisey grins, “It is a darling thing to witness when a woman tries to get involved in a man's world, isn't it your majesty?” Rather than risk his neck with a response that will undoubtedly anger either Marian or Vaisey, Arthur instead mimics Sir Guy's noncommittal grunt and raises a bite of porridge to his lips, pausing briefly when he notices Leo doing the exact same thing at the same time, even hesitating when he does. Narrowing his eyes, Arthur studies with suspicion as the little boy gulps down his spoonful and bites on his lip to hide an emerging smile.

“Admittedly, some truly can't afford it,” the steward starts, drawing Arthur's attention back to him, though all interest in the matter is lost. He's heard enough, but Vaisey continues, “Those are the ones I was referring to earlier, who refuse to get off of their tookus and do some proper work. But the others...they can afford it.” He slowly peels the skin from his fillet of fish, the scales glistening against the light, and savors it as he folds it into his mouth. Arthur watches him, resisting a grimace, and waits for him to elaborate, but the steward washes down his fish scales first with a few grapes. “Because, and you would do well to remember this, citizens _lie_ in the census to accommodate their self-preservation and lessen their contributions to this kingdom. I have seen it done. On more than one occasion.”

“Dormancy, hoarding, trickery...it seems risky to generalize these offenses across an entire population,” says Arthur. “How can you be sure your theory is fact?”

“They are still alive, aren't they?”

“Some are,” says Marian.

“ _Most_ are,” the steward corrects, “apart from those made to be examples.”

She does not wait for him to finish, “but there are others that are dying needlessly.”

Lord Vaisey downs the last of his ale, “Boo-hoo! Were you not listening? Everyone dies in the end. We'd never stop crying if every life was worth a tear.” He points at Arthur, his eyes lighting up with recall, “Speaking of which, I hope you have a fond farewell planned out for Hood. I will shed buckets of tears over the joy of losing that boy. Pity he couldn't meet his maker yesterday, I had his coffin already prepared with an engraving 'DEAD AT LAST'. For some individuals sooner will always be better than later, my sweet.” He says, resting a hand over Marian's, who instantly retracts it from beneath his palm. “Ooh touchy. Or should I say...not so touchy. You and Gisbourne are truly a match.”

Getting back to the meat of the steward's bumbling, Sir Guy turns his attention to Arthur, “I believe yesterday was the second time you have had to secede your chance of capturing Hood due to the inconvenience of your manservant. How did he manage to get caught in the first place?”

Silence falls over the table, waiting for Arthur's response, but he is unaware of it. He is too busy noticing the boy across from him, emulating his every move as he eats his breakfast, like a miniature reflection in a mirror. He lifts a piece of sausage from his plate, not surprised when Leo does the same.

“Are you mimicking me, Leo?” Arthur finally asks, oblivious to the others, his forkful of meat waiting in the air for its fate. The boy shakes his vigorously in denial. Leaning in, Arthur squints at him, “Are you sure about that?” Leofrick nods, but as Arthur slowly takes his bite, his pint-sized double does the same, and while Leo actually eats it, Arthur discards it at the last minute, foiling the little king's plans, and points at him victoriously, “Ah-ha!” Leofrick's tiny hand raises to cover his full mouth, his dimples pressing in as he laughs silently, bouncing in his seat.

All at once, it makes itself known to Arthur that three other pairs of eyes watch him speechlessly from around the table. Marian's lips are pressed firmly together in amusement, while Lord Vaisey's twist in confusion. He doesn't even look at Sir Guy, certain all he will find is disdain. “Sorry, I, uh...” he drifts off, motioning to Leofrick, but is unable to excuse away his distraction, so he clears his throat and raises his eyebrows expectantly, “Sorry, what?”

“Nevermind that.” The steward leans back in his seat, running his fingers over his lips, “This gives me quite a lovely idea.” There is a long pause, but he doesn't elaborate.

“And what would that be, my lord?” Sir Guy asks blandly in an attempt to humor him with an enthusiasm that does not exist.

Vaisey wiggles his finger back and forth between Leofrick and Arthur, “Why don't you two spend the day together? Hmm? Get his little majesty out of the castle for a while. You have the day off from Hood as it is, and I'm sure the king would enjoy it, wouldn't you?”

Leo gasps with a nod, looking to Marian, “Can we?”

She smooths his hair gently in an attempt to tame it. “That...is up to King Arthur,” she says, smiling across the table at him.

Arthur forces a smile, not entirely certain how to occupy a child for an entire day, but not wanting to let down the pleading eyes of the child staring up at him, “Absolutely. Yes, of course.”

“Wonderful!” Vaisey says, clapping his hands together. His zeal on the matter is something of a quandary that Arthur is not sure he should be thankful for or worried about.

Marian wipes her mouth clean and rests her napkin on the table beside her plate, preparing to leave, “If you don't mind, your Highness, I have a few errands that I would like to run this morning. Will you be able to watch the king on your own for a while? I won't be long.”

“You need not worry, he will be in safe hands.”

The men stand as she does, but it is Gisbourne who remains on his feet, “Lady Marian, allow me to accompany you.”

“That won't be necessary, Sir Guy, thank you,” she gives no explanation or excuse for her decline, the mark of a truly confident woman, and Arthur must divert his attention to his goblet, which he absently twists in place by its neck.

Once out of earshot, Vaisey feigns a shiver, “Brrrr, Gisbourne. I've had warmer ice baths. Try a smile every now and again. I hear it works wonders for a man striving to woo. Isn't that right, Arty?”

Arthur cringes, but nods, “I'm sure it never hurts.”

Sir Guy grumbles something inaudible, shoving another bit of food into his mouth, while Arthur looks to the stairs to catch one last glimpse of Marian. He is sure she has many matters of her own to tend to on a daily basis, but something in his gut tells him he knows exactly where she is going.

* * *

“He has to eat, Much,” says Robin. He's lounging back against a log by the fire pit, eating a bowl of chicken and potatoes which he picks at with his fingers, watching as Much struggles with what to do about their still bound captive. The absence of the gag is enough relief for Merlin, but without the use of his hands, it does make eating a challenge.

“Well, I'm not untying him. You never know what he's capable of.”

“Do you intend to spoon feed him, then?”

“I should think not!”

The campsite is empty aside from the three of them, and while Merlin is well-versed in the daily happenings of a king or a knight, he is unsure at first of what a group of bandits spend their time doing. Apart from breaking the law, obviously. But maybe it takes more effort than he realizes. He's been on a few quests with Arthur to obtain something in someone else's possession, or to free friends held under lock and key. In a round about way, that is no different from stealing or aiding in a criminal's escape. And to be honest, this campsite does not look altogether unfamiliar. More elaborate than the ones he and the knights craft, but it is also far less mobile. The more he thinks about it, the less foreign these outlaws and their way of life begin to look.

“You have to be hungry, Merlin.” Lost in his thoughts, Merlin looks up half expecting Gwaine to be the one sitting there, insisting that he get his fill. Instead, he finds an equally laid back Robin surveying him from across the dwindling fire.

“I could eat, yeah,” Merlin says with a nod.

Robin gestures out a hand toward him and looks to Much, “Are you going to deny this poor man food? Let him starve?” When Much busies himself with the dirty dishes left behind by the others rather than answer, Robin ruefully shakes his head, looking into his bowl to decide what his next bite will be. “It's your choice...but I'd be willing to bet King Arthur won't thank you for letting his servant starve.” He winks at Merlin before Much can turn to them again, then continues to wallow into his bowl. “In fact, he might just have a go at your other ribs. How's it feeling by the way? The gimpy one?”

“It just so happens it hurts...quite a lot actually,” Much adds, caressing it tenderly and his face begins to grimace the more he thinks about it. “Feels like it's been trampled on by an ogre.” His brow suddenly furrows, “Wait. Why does this all come down to _me_? You're the one who snatched him in the first place. I wanted to let him go.”

“An ogre,” Robin repeats with a chuckle, ignoring the rest of what Much has said. “Wart's certainly bigger than the last time I saw him, but I wouldn't call him an ogre.”

“I'm not call--” Much begins to huff, but when he sees Robin's not paying attention to him, he turns to look at Merlin, holding up a finger, “I'm not calling him an ogre. I'm not. I'm certainly not.”

Merlin smiles, forgetting that Arthur can be so intimidating for some people, “Believe me, I've called him far worse.” This makes Robin lift his head, a broad smile on his face despite the fact that he's still chewing his latest piece of chicken.

“I like this one, Much. Loyal, but feisty. No doubt he's in possession of many useful skills as well. I don't know...what do you think? Should we keep him?”

Much laughs, standing with his collection of bowls that need washing, “You're joking. Are you joking? You had better be joking. The king will have our heads if we don't give him back.”

“Nah, Arthur doesn't fancy decapitation,” says Merlin. “Too messy for his liking.” This makes Much smile, showing some relief, but Merlin goes on, “Quartering though...he does have a soft spot for that. Tarring and feathering...” Merlin nods, “that's always an enjoyable spectacle for him. Ooh! And throwing you to the lions. That might be his favorite. He is an animal lover, after all.”

Much stares at Merlin with his giant blue eyes before immediately abandoning his cleaning duties, letting the dishes tumble ungracefully to the ground, and filling another bowl with stew, “Let's get you fed, huh?” He brings it over with a large smile plastered on his face, setting it beside Merlin, and stoops down to untie him. “Here we go...if anyone asks, let him— _them_ , let them know we treated you with the utmost kindness. Wouldn't want to get a reputation for being cruel now would we, master?”

“No, not at all,” the amusement on the lead bandit's face is apparent. Much pulls the bindings free from Merlin's wrists, and Merlin finds his shoulders are sore from being pinched behind him for so long. He rolls them to try to loosen the ligaments, and rubs the tender flesh on his wrists while Much quickly bustles about to regather the discarded dishes.

“I think that's everything,” Much says as he looks around for anything he might have missed. Robin gets up from his seat, and rests his bowl on top of Much's pile, licking his fingers free of broth.

“Off you go.”

“Right, of course,” Much manages a free hand to point at Merlin before he goes, “Eat up, you!”

No one needs to tell him twice. Merlin dives into his food, savoring every carrot, every potato, every burst of flavor released by the herbs sprinkled over them. He glances up when Robin takes a seat on a log closer to him.

“Tell me, Merlin,” he says, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankles, “You aren't an average servant, are you?”

Merlin shakes his head to give himself time to swallow his mouthful of food, “No, I'm quite rubbish actually, but there is so much to keep up with,” he takes another bite, talking through it this time, “there's the laundry, keeping his chambers clean, polishing his armor, getting his meals, plus everything Gaius needs me to do for him. He's the court physician, and I'm like his assistant, I guess you could say. With all that, in my defense, some things are bound to get overlooked.”

“No...I mean serving isn't all you do for the king, is it?”

“Oh.” Merlin chews slower as he thinks about the implications of what Robin is asking him. He drops the carrot in his hand back into the bowl and looks at him, “I promise you, I don't know anything more about Arthur's plans for while he's in Nottingham. I didn't even know we were _coming_ to Nottingham until we were already in Sherwood Forest.”

Robin laughs, looking to the sky as he draws his legs in and leans his elbows forward on his knees, “I'm not trying to interrogate you. I just haven't seen someone so dedicated to their master since...well...Much.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction his friend vanished to head to the nearby stream. “And I know it takes more than cooking and cleaning to develop that sort of bond. So what was it?”

Lowering his eyes to his bowl, the events from the past few years swirl in Merlin's mind with an overwhelming answer to the question. All the things they have been through together. The trials, the quests, the wars, struggling to survive, to carve out lives for themselves, to become men others would be proud of while staying true to who they are. They were at each other's side the whole time. Through the good and the bad. Merlin had been there when Arthur could barely contain himself from skipping around his chambers with love for Guienevere and shared in his undeniable joy over her acceptance of his marriage proposal. But he had also been there when she crushed him. He had been there when Uther died, saw the tears shed, and helped to carry Arthur into a new day as king.

There is much that Arthur still does not know about him, so many things that must remain hidden for the good of everyone. But just as Merlin has put his life on the line for his friend all those times that to this day are obscured from Arthur's awareness, so has his friend risked his life for him. A servant, but one whose master never leaves him behind. Arthur helped him to defend his family and friends in Ealdor against insurmountable odds when it was of no benefit to him, but because it was important to Merlin. And though Arthur may not always understand the important moments that happen in Merlin's life, he is a part of them, rejoicing with him and mourning with him, regardless.

“It's...difficult to put into words,” says Merlin.

“Give it a go, eh?”

Merlin picks at his food, thinking, “Alright...um, well...have you ever been walking through the woods and you come upon a river? And it's flowing so fast you're almost, sort of, drawn to it? You can't can't quite explain why, but you just have to go to it. To look to see where the raging rapids are coming from and where they're going?” He looks to Robin, who nods after a moment.

“I've never really thought about it before, but...yeah. I guess that's happened.”

“Imagine that you're there, on the edge of one of those rivers, and the bank gives way or your foot slips, and suddenly you find yourself being swept away with the current, inescapable and terrifying, pulling you under.” Though certain he is making little sense, Merlin is surprised to find Robin simply listening, not an ounce of judgment clouding his eyes. So he continues, “It's like that. It's like Arthur and I have been swept away by the same river. He keeps my head above the water, and I strive day by day to steer him closer to shore.”

“Why not just preserve your energy and save yourself?” he asks.

The thought has crossed Merlin's mind before, especially at the beginning of it all, to abandon his destiny, leave Arthur behind, and start a life someplace where he doesn't have to hide who he is, where he can flourish in all his glory. But his life is not his own. It is meant for more than his happiness. “Because he is destined for greatness and I am destined to help get him there.”

“Greatness, you say? Huh,” Robin gets up, clearly not convinced, and tosses a pail of water over the simmering embers of the fire. He begins to stomp out the coals with a bit more vigor than someone who doesn't harbor some sort of resentment about the person in discussion.

“What happened?” Merlin asks, setting his bowl aside. “I know you two have a history, but Arthur has yet to tell me anything.”

“As I would expect,” he says, “Shame tends to silence a man.”

So many questions spring into his mind, but just then, before he can ask any of them, something draws Merlin's attention away from the outlaw and to the thick patch of woods to his right. He stands, flitting his eyes from tree to tree as his breath becomes stagnant in his chest, refusing to come out. The palms of his hands become sweaty, and he can't be sure what has come over him, but whatever it is has caught the attention of Robin as well.

“What is it?” Robin asks, stepping out of the fire pit to come to Merlin's side. “Did you see something?”

“I...no, but I--”

“Over here?” Robin doesn't wait to listen, motioning towards the forest. He draws his dagger and starts towards the trees whose loyalties may have shifted to conceal a growing threat rather than defend the thieves and their camp. Staying crouched low to the ground, he creeps closer to the edge of the clearing, jerking with a start when someone suddenly rounds the trunk of a nearby tree, but his rigid stance quickly abates when the face of Marian emerges. He grabs her arm, withdrawing a small protest from her, and pulls her back behind the tree. Merlin can still hear them.

“Marian, you shouldn't have come here,” Robin says, his head bobs briefly back into view as he cranes his neck to glance back at Merlin. “You risk compromising your--”

“Arthur already knows,” her soft voice floats through the air before she reappears and continues towards Merlin. “You know, a smart captive would run if they are unbound and their captors are preoccupied.” She smiles at him, and Merlin can only return the gesture, not quite sure why he hasn't attempted to escape yet either, apart from feeling that he should find out what he can about these outlaws while he has the chance.

“ _What_?” Robin follows a few paces behind her. “If Wart knows we have to get you out of here, we have to go get your father before they can get to him. He'll have said something by now.”

“You're...friends?” Merlin asks her quietly when she is close enough, glancing at Robin over her shoulder. Somehow he is not surprised.

She furrows her brow at his chin, taking it into her hand to study it, then meets his eyes, “A relationship that may prove to be useful momentarily...” She turns to face Robin again, “Do you think if I were afraid for my life, I would come to _you_ before saving my own father?”

Robin stops in his tracks, “He didn't tell Vaisey?”

“No, of course not.”

“And you aren't in trouble?”

“No.”

A sly grin creeps up onto his lips as the outlaw's entire body visibly relaxes, “Ah, so then this must be a _social_ call.” He moseys closer, resting a hand on her waist, but Marian presses a hand against his chest to make him keep his distance.

“I'm afraid that ship has sailed,” she says with a small grin of her own, taking Robin's hand from her waist and pushing it against his chest as if to give it back to him. Scratching his temple, Merlin takes a small step back to give them a bit of space.

“Has it? I'm not so sure...I think I'm still on board.”

“At any rate,” her tone clearly indicating a need to change topics, “I did not come to see you. I came for Merlin.”

Merlin's ears perk up at this, his eyebrows raising with hopeful anticipation, “ _For_ me?”

“Meaning she intends to take you with her,” says Robin, his flirtatious demeanor slowly fading. He folds his arms across his chest. “But tell me why on earth I would agree to that.”

“Because I am your friend, and in need of this favor.”

“I let him go, Wart breaks the deal. He'd never see the good we do for the people of Mercia – not that it'd be enough for him to call off the hunt – but I have to try something if I'm to save my men from the fate they've carved out for me.”

“Arthur will come to meet you,” says Merlin. “I know he will. And I know you doubt his character, but you do not need a hostage to get him to give you a chance.”

Marian nods in agreement, “He and I have an understanding.”

“Ah, right, an understanding,” Robin says. “Because we both know how well that worked out for the two of you before, don't we?” Merlin glances between them, wishing desperately that they would expound upon the past and its offenses that seems to want to stay hidden, tucked beneath the thick grudges of the people involved.

“He is starting to see sense,” says Marian. “He has seen the poverty that surrounds us firsthand, and heard my testimony. This morning I saw the scrutiny in his eyes as he spoke with the steward that was not there when he first arrived. He does not doubt me or the plights of the citizens. It is _you_ he doubts. What better way to start showing him the true nature of your heart than to release Merlin in good faith?”

Robin laughs, “You think _I_ need to prove myself to _Wart_?” He shakes his head pacing away, and settling back down in his spot before the fire pit that now houses the remains of charred logs. “He should be the one to prove himself to us.” He plucks a blade of grass from the soil beside him and holds it between his teeth. Marian glances to Merlin for help, but this is one conversation Merlin is unable to find contributions to give to.

She looks to Robin again, “He already has.”

“Marian...” he groans, pulling the piece of grass from his mouth, and dropping his hand into his lap, “you forgive too easily.”

“You judge too harshly,” she counters. “If you are unsure of the man, then look to his followers. In them you will see reflections of the qualities he possesses himself. Think of Me, Merlin, Queen Annis of Caerleon – a woman you respect – recently pledging her loyalties to him. The people of Camelot, many of whom, though they showed respect, held the same disregard for Uther as you and I, but are now wholly behind Arthur as their king. They adore him. And Leofrick.” She smiles, “I have never seen him take so keenly to a stranger before.”

“The lad is blinded by Wart's fame.”

“I think you are wrong,” says Marian, “And I think your prejudices risk one of the only chances we have at freeing this land from Vaisey's reign. Arthur is willing to help that cause. But perhaps you are not ready to give up your spot of glory as the people's hero just yet. Maybe you prefer to have them dependent on you and maybe you are afraid of what you will become if they no longer need you. And if that is the case then show me you are a bigger man than this, Robin, because I will not stand by and waste my breath on someone unwilling to listen. You need to make these choices for yourself, and do what is best for the people.”

Robin rubs his forehead, “You are getting worked up over a fragile hope.”

“Fragile or not, he's giving us more than we've had in recent times.” When she sees Robin's bitterness has stifled anymore of his willingness to converse, she turns to Merlin, “I hope to see you back at the castle soon, Merlin...for all of our sakes.” Without so much as another glance in the outlaw's direction, she lifts the hood of her cloak and makes her way back across the clearing, disappearing into the tightly knit fabric of trees.

“Marian...” Robin calls wearily after her, though he makes no move to pursue her. He lets out a breath and lets his head drop back, the burden of it all too much to think about, and Merlin understands. The devotion of a friend is difficult to support when the one to whom they offer their favor is someone you find to be lacking in virtue. At the thought, Merlin suddenly finds himself thankful for the absence of Lord Agravaine in Nottingham during this already confusing time for Arthur.

But as grateful as Merlin is for Marian's words and effort in the matter of proving Arthur's decency, the only thing reiterating itself over and over again in the young dragonlord's mind is what she said about Arthur willing to help the cause. If that is true, it means that it will no longer be a matter of getting Arthur and the knights out of enemy infested lands alive, but of saving the people of Mercia as well. Camelot teeters on the edge of war with Mercia. And if a war with Mercia is on the horizon, it means that Morgana will not be far behind. What started off as an already dangerous task seems to have magnified tenfold. How could they have gotten themselves in this mess? Merlin sinks back down onto the log waiting at his heels, bowing his head to grasp it in his hands.

Much rounds the bend with a set of clean bowls, stopping when he sees the disheartened postures of the two men, “Did I...” he sighs in defeat, “I missed something, didn't I?”

* * *

She is already there. There is no indication of how long she has been waiting, or how she managed to gain access to the council room without being seen, but those are the petty things one does not ask of a high priestess. Sir Guy had expected to be the first one to arrive, but his strong, casual strides faltered as he entered the room and saw Morgana's lithe form standing in front of the window. She makes no move to turn away from it or even greet him. And he would expect no less.

Coming to stand at her shoulder, Guy can see something has her bothered. Though her chin is held high, the muscles in her brow waver with an emotion he can't quite define. It is the green eyes that stare out into the daylight and droop with sadness that give tell of her broken state. Still, he proceeds with caution as a wounded animal is often the most dangerous.

“My Lady...?”

“I always knew one day he would make a better father,” she says. “Better than either one of us has ever known.” Sir Guy tracks her line of sight to the training field in the distance. Beneath a large oak tree situated on the edge of the field sits a clump of knights with a woman, even from this far away, Guy can tell is Marian. Her regal posture as she sits in the grass is softened by the way her chestnut curls sway in the breeze, and no one else can have such beauty and grace in every movement they make. But that is not where Morgana's focus is at. In the middle of the field, wielding a pair of wooden swords, duels Arthur and King Leofrick, whose height barely reaches that of Arthur's belt, making plenty of laughs for the knights and Marian to share in.

He rests a hand on the edge of the window, propping the other on his hip, “If you are having second thoughts about--”

“No,” she snaps with an air of desperation rather than anger, turning to face him. She stares up at him, her voice just above a whisper, “Do you have any idea what he has taken from me? The throne I was meant to sit in, the crown I was meant to wear, the power I was meant to rule with, the family, life, and happiness _I_ was meant to have. I should be in possession of it _all_!” Her fists clench tightly, and she pounds one against the wall. Her hand slowly falls back to her side, “I would have done a great many things for my people as Queen. Cut the chains of oppression from the ankles of those with magic, and allowed them to live freely. An entire race would no longer be hunted in Camelot, but accepted.” Her lip twitches before rising into a disgusted sneer, “And what has he done with the same magnitude of influence? Nothing. Knighted peasants and pledged himself to a servant. All for his own benefit. Did he ever think to legalize magic? Did he ever think how that would have allowed me to return to the only home I have ever had and be with the only family of mine that remains? He and I could have ruled as brother and sister. But his selfish ambition and the fear Uther ingrained in his mind ruined everything. And now I have nothing.”

“Then there is little to lose.” He lifts his eyes to look back outside, “Which is why we have the advantage. He has everything to lose.”

“All I need is his life, and everything will fall into place.” Her eyes darken as they focus more pointedly on him, “And yet, his vivacity remains unhindered. Tell me, Sir Guy, why is that?”

He meets her gaze with undaunted resolve, “While escorting the collection, the real outlaws attacked Arthur and his knights. My men couldn't very well join in without being exposed by Hood as frauds. There was nothing I could do.”

“What was the outcome of the battle?” She glances over her shoulder to the knights before returning her gaze to Sir Guy. “Clearly the men of Camelot finished things out unscathed. Does this mean Hood is in captivity?”

“Not exactly--”

“Tsk tsk!” Lord Vaisey's voice breaks the peace of their intimate huddle as he comes to join them, closing the door loudly behind him with inconsiderate form.“Started the party without me? Look at you two. If I didn't know any better, I'd say Lady Marian has found herself some competition.” He grins as he approaches, “My Lady, it is a pleasure as always.”

Sir Guy closes his eyes to keep from rolling them before breaking his stance to address the steward with a small bow, “I was just about to inform the Lady Morgana of all that transpired during the knights' encounter with Hood and his men.”

“A short discourse, to be sure,” says Vaisey, “since Camelot's king does not seem interested in sharing the complete details.”

“He is withholding information?” She asks, looking between them.

Guy folds his arms across his chest, “Amidst their skirmish, it came to light that Hood had kidnapped the servant boy. He used Arthur's strange attachment to him to buy himself and his men another victory.”

Turning to peer out the window once more, Morgana furrows her brow, “So then where is Merlin now? I assume it was a trade; freedom for freedom.”

“We can't be sure,” says Guy, leaning back against the wall adjacent to the window. “Hood still has him.”

“It seems our beloved king has made a pact with the bandit to get him back, but the details of which, he feels, are best left tucked away within that blonde little head of his.” Vaisey paces over to the table where a pitcher of wine waits for them.

“Have you confronted him on his secrecy?” Morgana asks. “What reason does he give for playing his cards so close to his chest?”

“Courtesy,” says the steward, filling his goblet to the brim. “He assures me that this is his problem to deal with and that I needn't worry myself over it.”

She offers a pained smile with her taunt, “How kind of him.”

“This is hardly a set back,” says Sir Guy. “Even without all of the necessary information, we still may be able to use this to our advantage.”

“What do you have in mind?” Morgana asks.

Guy smirks, pushing himself off of the wall, “What? And allow your brother to show more courtesy than me? No...” He reaches out to take a light hold of her chin, “You needn't worry, my lady. Leave this to me.”

“Your intrigue is overwhelming,” she says. “Will you not gift me with an enticing clue?”

“Yes, Gisbourne, give us something,” Vaisey chimes in from his seat that the table where he enjoys his drink, “Your reserve is more concerning than encouraging.”

Dropping his hand from Morgana's face, Sir Guy glances between them before directing his view out the window, “I have a man of particular strategic value positioned within their ranks. Nothing will be a secret for long.” He looks down at the training field, where the two kings continue to brandish their wooden swords, parrying and blocking with juvenile ease. Arthur turns his head towards the tree that shelters his friends from the sun, presumably distracted by something one of them had called out to him, but in that moment of inattention, young Leofrick swings his blunt weapon, slamming it into the crest of Arthur's shin.

* * *

“Ow!” It is an involuntary shout that Arthur immediately wishes he could retract as it sends the knights and Marian howling into laughter, but it is only after he joins in – though more to mock them than anything else – that Leofrick begins to giggle as well. This brings a genuine smile to the older king's face as he attempts to walk off the throbbing pain that radiates up his leg by circling the curly-haired boy.

“Need reinforcements there, sire!?” Gwaine calls from where he reclines against the tree trunk, crunching on a fresh apple.

Percival cups his hands around his mouth to help him project, “Perhaps you'd like me to fetch you a cane!” Arthur straightens his posture, refusing to let his men see him hobble anymore.

“See? I should have listened to my own advice,” he says to Leo, wiping the sweat from his brow. Unlike the knights, he doesn't have the luxury of shade to spare him from the heat of the day. “Never take your eye off your opponent during battle.”

Leo bounces in place, beaming with renewed energy, “I really got you, Arter!” He strikes at Arthur again, but this time Arthur is ready, and easily blocks the boy, who is so light he stumbles forward from his own momentum, falling to his knees. Arthur catches him by his arm before he can fall face first into their locked blades, and pops him back onto his feet.

“Now remember what I said about your feet?”

“No tippy-toes...” Leo sighs.

“That's right,” says Arthur, positioning his own feet to better show him how it's done, “Take a wide stance, plant your feet, and keep your knees bent.” He watches the little boy as he tries to copy him, clearly putting too much thought into it as he budges his feet ever-so-slightly to get them just right. Arthur cracks a small grin at Leo's intensity, “There we go. That way, your weight is fixed to the ground. You won't be able to be knocked over very easily. But also, your legs are then ready to dive or dodge in any direction you need to go.”

“Rawr, rawr!” Leo growls, pretending to lunge and kill several monsters around them from the comfort of his new found bearings.

“Good,” Arthur moves to adjust Leo's arms for him. “Now keep your elbows in as much as you can. The farther you extend, the less control and the less power you'll have in your swing.”

A feminine shadow falls in front of them as Marian comes to join them, “At this rate, he'll be a proper warrior before he can even go to bed on his own.”

“I've never trained them this young,” Arthur says, standing tall after seeing that Leo no longer needs his guidance. “But he seems to be picking things up quite easily.”

“Rawr!” Leo growls again, running down the field to slay an invisible foe. He tries to twirl his sword as Arthur habitually does, but drops it into the grass. “Oh no!” Kicking at his opponent, he must have given himself enough time to get away because he cartwheels ungracefully and retrieves his sword, thrusting it into the empty air, crying out in victory.

Arthur motions towards the pretend battle unfolding out in front of them, “I'm not very good at playing. I never know what to do or say, but,” he shrugs, looking at her, “what little boy doesn't want to learn how to swing a sword?”

“He doesn't care about the quality of your imagination, Arthur. All he cares about is that you are taking time out of your day to be with him. Few people do that,” she says. “And certainly no one has ever set aside time to show him these sorts of things before.”

“Not even you?”

“He is not as eager to learn swordsmanship from a lady as he is from a proper knight,” she glances over his shoulder and a smile starts to form on her lips, “but now that you have given him a few pointers, maybe Leofrick in return can teach you a thing or two.”

Letting out a snort, Arthur cocks an eyebrow at her, “I don't know about that.”

“Marian, no!” Leofrick suddenly yells from his place farther down the field, “I'll save you!” As the little boy starts charging towards them, Arthur's brow knits with confusion. He looks to Marian for some sort of explanation.

“You're never to old to learn how to play,” she says. Before he can protest, or even fully register what he is getting himself into, the tiniest knight Arthur has ever seen is upon him, brandishing his wooden sword with all of the techniques previously taught to him. He blocks an onslaught of attacks.

“Let her go, foul man!” Leo demands, adding his own sound effects to their sword fight, complete with the _clank_ of metal and the _whoosh_ of his blade flying through the air. Arthur is at a loss for words, though the laughter of Marian and the cheers and jeers of the knights are of no help.

“No!” Arthur shouts back, his face contorting at the lackluster dialogue of his own choosing, but Leo must have taken it as the sneer of a villain because, despite his naturally meek voice, he advances with a battle cry. Arthur pushes Marian, his captive, behind him.

“Save me, Leo! Save me!” she cries, and Arthur can't help but shake his head with a laugh, the words sounding preposterous coming out of her mouth. “Oh, shut up,” she mutters, only loud enough for Arthur to hear, and hitting him lightly on the back.

Then Leo suddenly stops, his sword falling slack to his side and the demeanor of his heroic persona returning to the timid boy from earlier. “Wait,” he says, holding up his small hand. Arthur stops. He lowers his own sword and relaxes his stance. “There's someone else.”

“Someone else?” Arthur asks, and he is relieved to have a break in their play so that he can fully flesh out the scenario he has been thrown mercilessly into. “You know, I was wondering about that. It seems only right that a man of evil tendencies, such as myself, would have a henchman or two to help fight his battles.” He pauses, scratching the back of his head as he thinks, “Or minions. I think minions sound more villainous.”

“No...”

“You don't like that? Alright, well,” he says, twirling his wooden blade absently, “there's always giants or minotaurs, though I prefer minotaurs. They aren't as daft, and happen to enjoy feeding on children and maidens.” He points from Leo to Marian. “Convenient for me.”

“Arthur,” Marian scolds, though it only makes him grin.

“What do you say to that, eh, Leo?” He flips his sword skillfully into the air before snatching the hilt again and pointing his blade down at the boy. “Minotaurs then?”

“No...”

Furrowing his brow, Arthur drops his weapon to his side with a shrug, “Well, what then?”

“Servant!”

“A servant,” Arthur repeats blandly. “I'm not quite convinced that's the most menacing of adversaries you can think of. Surely I deserve to have followers a bit more fierce.”

Leo sighs with exasperation, and it is the first time Arthur has ever felt belittled by a child, “Not a servant here...there!” He thrusts a finger out, pointing past Arthur and Marian. At first, Arthur cannot fully determine whether they are still playing or if they have reentered the real world, but the boy points with such conviction that he and Marian have to turn to see if anything is there.

Lo and behold, ambling across the field, his gangly arms flapping at his sides and his dopey smile beginning to spread across his face, is Merlin. He is still a ways off, but the knights have also taken notice of his return.

“Would you look at that,” says Leon, abandoning his afternoon wine to get to his feet with the others. They all linger another moment in their clump beneath the tree, none of them wanting to expose their eagerness and be the first to approach him, all except for Gwaine that is, who hands his half-eaten apple to Percival.

“He always manages to turn up in the end, doesn't he?” He says before hurrying out to meet him. Percival cringes at his hand, now covered in Gwaine's saliva, and tosses the apple aside before following after him with Leon and Elyan in tow.

“This was your doing, wasn't it?” Arthur asks, looking down at Marian as he comes to stand at her side. “One of your errands from this morning?”

“That would make things easier, wouldn't it?” she says with a faint smile, “Just imagine how painful it would be if you actually had to give Robin a bit of credit.”

“Oh, I do,” Arthur hands her his toy sword, “I credit him for heeding good advice when he hears it.” He smiles and starts towards the mass of knights that now mostly conceals Merlin from view as they all try to get their greetings in, slapping him on the back and offering their delight over his return. Leofrick, not wanting to be left out of the celebration, runs past Arthur to join the men of Camelot, slipping between their legs and jumping up and down with joy, cheering their friend on. His enthusiasm spreads to Merlin, who stoops down to greet him.

As Arthur approaches the group, the knights step aside to make way for him, and Merlin pats the top of Leofrick's head, standing to face his king. He spreads his arms out to his sides briefly as if to say _here I am_ , but he stays silent, letting his actions speak for him.

“I'm glad to see you back in one piece,” Arthur says, though upon closer inspection his smile fades slightly. He is not alarmed by the wound on his servant's chin or the dried blood that surrounds it, but rather by the fact that his smile, which is so often embodied by every part of him, cannot even manage to reach his eyes. It is more than fatigue. More than trauma. Something's very wrong.

“What a champion,” boasts Percival, ruffling Merlin's hair, “Hardly a scratch on him.”

“How did you manage it?” asks Leon.

“He's Merlin, that's how,” Gwaine says, slinging an arm over Merlin's shoulders. “But I'm sure there's a great tale behind it, eh?”

“Oh, well...” Merlin scratches at his temple, all of the intrigue surrounding him starting to make him bashful. His eyes connect briefly with his king's, and Arthur can see the light in them is indeed dim. Stepping forward, he contemplates how to fend off the well-intentioned chatter of his men.

“No need to be modest, Merlin,” Elyan says, backhanding Merlin's gut lightly. “Not many can say they've outwitted a band of outlaws single-handed.”

“Gentlemen,” Arthur walks into the middle of their circle to break them up a bit more, coming to stand beside Merlin, “Dinner is almost upon us, why don't you head inside to clean up and give us a moment?” He does not mean to dampen the mood, but it is clear by the sudden lack of laughter and the reserved expressions of his knights that they, too, have come to realize there is more going on than is being said.

“Of course, sire,” says Leon, starting to usher the knights from the field. Gwaine glances between Arthur and Merlin before his gaze falls to the ground and he follows suit, slipping his arm off of his friend and making his way towards the large oak to gather their things.

“Come along, Leofrick.” Marian bends down to scoop him up into her arms. “What do you say to the king for spending the day with you?”

“Thank you...” he says softly with a small pout forming on his lips. Marian offers a smile, exchanging glances with Merlin before heading toward the castle, and Arthur can hear Leo's voice again as he talks to his handler, “Do we have to be done already?”

Instead of waiting to see if he can hear a response, Arthur shifts his stance to face Merlin. The two friends don't say anything for a few minutes, but when Merlin turns his focus to the grass at his feet and shuffles the toe of his boots lightly against it to rid them of some of their dirt, Arthur knows he will have to be the one to break the silence.

“Merlin, what happened?” he asks. “One minute, I'm sending you off with a list of tasks to do and the next I find out you're being held captive by Hood. Is the tavern not an exciting enough place to avoid my orders anymore?”

“It's not that,” Merlin says, not even biting at Arthur's joke. “It's just...”

Arthur waits for him to go on, but when he doesn't, he rubs his forehead, “I'm not going to needle it out of you, Merlin, I have enough to think about as it is. If you are going to tell me what you need to then do it now.”

“I don't know where to start...”

“Pick a spot. I'm fluent in your prattle by now.”

“I...overheard Sir Guy and Lord Vaisey talking in the hallway,” he says, looking around, though fortunately for them there is nowhere for someone wishing to eavesdrop to hide in the middle of a field. “They spoke of a bargain they had made with an unnamed woman, and how they were worried of sparking war with Camelot if they weren't careful.”

“They lack integrity, I've already gathered that much for myself,” Arthur says, glancing back at Marian's retreating form, unsure of how he is going to break the change of plans involved with that revelation to Merlin. “But I have been--”

“Morgana is here,” Merlin interrupts, nearly out of breath with nerves. He steps closer, his eyes consoling, “Arthur...I followed Sir Guy into the woods where Morgana was waiting for him. They're all working together.”

Arthur searches his friend's face, hoping to detect anything but the truth that he knows is ultimately there. His throat constricts, and the growing lump in his stomach churns until it rises painfully within his chest. Knitting his brow together, he tries desperately to suppress the emotions that threaten his unwavering fortitude, “You're certain?”

“Beyond a doubt,” says Merlin. “They mean to kill you, Arthur. The fire, the attack at the pub... it wasn't Robin Hood. It was them. Gisbourne's men. I heard it confessed from their own mouths.”

“And they are using Hood as a cover.” Unable to even look at him, Arthur turns his gaze towards the woods beyond the field, “I should have known. I should have listened sooner...but, as is the Pendragon curse, I became prideful, Merlin. Prideful of Camelot, of my men, of myself. And in striving to prove our excellence, this whole time, I've been playing right into their hands.” He lets out a breath and bows his head to rub his brow, this time with more force as the ache in his head grows.

“This isn't your fault.”

“Yes, it is!” Arthur snaps his head up, the swell rising within his chest no longer sour and bilious, but heated and uncontrollable. “ _All_ of it, Merlin. Not out of principle because I am Camelot's king, but out of brutal honesty because I have been a fool. It can't be excused away. If things go wrong here, it is _entirely_ my fault. If my men, some of the kindest and most noble of men I have ever known, lose their lives here, it is I who stripped them from this earth before their time. All because of my pride and arrogance for thinking I could do better than my father. Do you know what he would have done?” Merlin doesn't respond. “Hmm?” Arthur raises his eyebrows, daring him to offer insight, but he gives none. “He would have said from the _very_ beginning that if Vaisey desired a treaty with Camelot, he can sign at the bottom of the agreement and be done with it, otherwise it is forfeit. It would have been Mercia's responsibility to extend the olive branch, to which Camelot would be waiting with a gracious hand to receive it. There would have been none of these...games.” He waves a hand in the air and paces away, simply needing to move and release some of the pressure building on the spring coiling tighter and tighter within him.

He hears Merlin following after him, “I know you're upset, but--”

“You know,” Arthur says, turning back to Merlin so quickly, Merlin nearly stumbles on his own feet to stop before running into him. “I would really just prefer to not talk about it for now. You're back. We can count that as one victory. And Vaisey doesn't know we are onto him. We can count that as another. But I'll need you to find a place for the knights and I to talk in complete privacy. We'll meet there tonight to go over the next course of action.” Arthur continues towards the castle, his frustration making his speed difficult to match

Merlin raises his eyebrows and hurries to keep in stride with him, “You already have a plan?”

“Not in the least.”

 


	7. Chapter Six

 

 

There was only one place Merlin could think of that would offer the men of Camelot a secure place to council without drawing too much attention to themselves, but even with leaving their formal garb behind, they still thought it necessary to stagger their arrival to the meeting place as to avoid detection. The people in Nottinghamshire are impressively perceptive; they manage to take notice of everyone who would rather remain unseen.

Gwaine offered to be the first to go, rather eager to have the duty of claiming their spot resting on his apt shoulders, given the situation, while Elyan and Leon were to follow shortly after. Percival was next in line to arrive, giving a good half an hour between the previous knights' leaving and his coming. It must have been a successful ploy because all four of their horses are found tied to the post outside of the building as Arthur and Merlin come to round out their ranks.

“This is your brilliant location of choice?” Arthur asks, swinging his leg over his saddle and hopping to the ground. “If you're going to keep something a secret from me, Merlin, you might as well make sure the reveal proves to be satisfying.”

Merlin stares up at the sign for the tavern; its chains squeak as the splintered wood clatters lightly against the side of the battered structure. “What? I thought it was clever.” He hops down from his own horse and tethers it beside Arthur's. “Haven't you ever heard of hiding in plain sight?”

“Heard of it, yes,” he rolls up his sleeves as he starts toward the front door, “but I'm not as well practiced in it as you are.”

Merlin hurries to catch up to Arthur, “What's that supposed to mean?” The sounds of the ruckus housed within follows a pair of drunken customers as they bang the door open. Arthur catches its lip and holds it open for them as they stumble across the threshold.

“You hit the ground during battle more than anyone I know,” he says, cocking an eyebrow at a particularly loud belch from one of the men passing them by. He looks over at Merlin, “I hate to break it to you, but our enemies can still see you even when you are cowering with your tail between your legs.” Arthur gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, as if he has just crushed one of Merlin's childhood beliefs, before walking into the tavern. If only he knew just how well hiding in plain sight has served Merlin over the past few years...

Inside, Arthur is already scanning the tables, looking for the knights. It is a much livelier place than some of the others they have seen in the area. Merlin notices that not a single seat is available; they are all occupied by folk laughing and celebrating, though over what, he can't be sure, but whatever it is has sent the lone barmaid behind the counter into a frenzy, filling drink orders left and right without a moment to spare. The hubbub is almost overwhelming.

“You gents sure picked a fine night to visit,” says a second barmaid as she approaches with a bright smile on her face and a full pitcher in her hands. Merlin rubs his throbbing temple, letting Arthur do the talking.

“It appears so,” he says, “Is there a specific occasion we are drinking to?”

“The kindness of others, I guess you could say.” Merlin furrows his brow at her answer; while a respectable thing to praise, the prospect of such a festival feels so out of place in Mercia, especially given that their taxes were hauled away only just yesterday. But she continues, “A patron arrived this evening, offering to buy everyone's drinks for the night.” Her smile widens at the words, “It is a good night for the customers and owner, alike to be sure. Shall I help you to find a seat?”

“Actually...” Arthur's eyes drift across the room again, “we're looking for a few friends.” Just then, a high, quick whistle draws the attention of all three of them to the balcony above where Gwaine hangs over the railing, his face mostly concealed by his cascading hair, waving down at them. “That...would be one of them.”

“Ah, the patron himself,” she says. “Follow me.” Merlin and Arthur exchange amused glances before following the petite blonde up the stairs. She leads them down the second floor hall, past several embracing couples, which, though the barmaid and Arthur simply brush by them, Merlin hugs the wall to keep as much distance from them as he can; there are also several men slumped in a stupor over the railing, but none of them, thankfully, are Gwaine, who has already disappeared. Arthur needs a lot of things right now, but a drunken knight is not one of them.

“I thought you would look more at home, Merlin,” says Arthur, “Isn't this your preferred sort of resting place?” One day, Merlin knows he will have to straighten his king out on just how little he actually frequents the tavern, but seeing as Gaius will only be growing older, and his mind only becoming more senile, it is a cover they will have to keep in tact for now when in need of an on-the-spot alibi as to why Merlin is nowhere to be found.

“I don't like new places,” he offers as an excuse.

“Why doesn't that surprise me?” Arthur slows as the maiden approaches a closed door; the muffled voices of Elyan and Percival permeating from between its slats.

She opens the door to escort the two new party members inside. “Here we are...” There is a moment when Sir Leon begins to scoot out his chair, as if making to stand for his king's entrance, but mid-motion he recalls that they are undercover, and as far as the citizens in this building are concerned, there are no members of royalty here. He pauses. All eyes on him. Then, to make it seem intentional, he keeps his seat slid out, lounging back and propping a foot up on his opposite knee.

Percival does his best to smooth it over, pointing at the barmaid's necklace, which has slipped out from beneath her neckline, as she leans over the table to refill his tankard, “That's a beautiful gem.” Taking a seat at the table, Merlin glances at it – an ornate scroll of silver with a jade drop hanging from it – before she conceals it within her fist, almost protectively.

“A family heirloom,” she says with a frown.

“Oh,” Percival nods with a smile, pretending to seem interested. “It's a lucky thing you weren't stripped of it during the tax collection.”

“Not all of us are so destitute,” she sets the pitcher down onto the tabletop rather roughly, her mouth forcing a smile when she looks to the others. “If you find yourselves in need, of anything, please don't hesitate to ask.”

“We'll be sure to do that,” says Arthur. “Thank you.”

The door shuts behind her, and everyone turns their attention to Percival, who sits up taller with an astounded knit brow, “What did I say?”

“Let this be a lesson to us all,” Gwaine says. “Leave the beguiling of women to me.”

Merlin, along with Elyan and Arthur, offer humored smiles, but the normal inclination towards jesting among the group has diminished; it began this afternoon when an ambiguous shadow of concern followed Merlin into Nottingham from the forest. But only he and their king know the details of the trouble that haunts them, and that is enough to leave Leon and Percival somber amidst Gwaine's dallying. With a lack of support, Gwaine's face falls to concern, and the knights direct all of their focus to Arthur, who silently pulls his tankard closer, but does not drink.

“Gentlemen,” he finally says, “first and foremost, I must apologize. I have lead you astray.” No one responds. No one knows how to, but Merlin can sense the staleness in the air as the uncertainty within the knights keep them from breathing easily. Arthur lifts his gaze, looking each and every one of them in the eye as he speaks, “Some information has come to light that has caused me to question our mission and, in the end, has greatly altered the nature of our visit.” He presses his fingertips down into the tabletop, “This may not be the round table, but we still sit here as equals. Your opinions on this matter mean more to me than you can possibly comprehend, so I ask that you speak freely and with the utmost honesty...Merlin...” Arthur gestures toward him, “Tell the others what you heard.”

Taking a long pause, Merlin tries to gather his thoughts. There is so much to say, and yet without knowing how long they will have uninterrupted, he must remain concise. “I overheard a conversation yesterday, one that revealed the steward's true intentions for having us here.” Merlin looks between his friends, their faces full of concern and dread; he hates to be the one to make their fears a reality. “He does not desire a treaty with Camelot,” he continues. “In fact, he wishes to cripple Camelot with the death of their king, so that his true ally may ascend to the throne.”

The knights all turn to Arthur, who keeps his entwined hands resting against his lips, his gaze down at his drink. Merlin can't help but think of Robin's words from earlier. _Shame tends to silence a man_. And he knows that what Arthur is feeling is, in truth, shame. For not discovering this sooner, for not seeing the steward's real motives. When he says that it is all his fault, he means it, he believes it, and he carries the weight of it.

Leon sits up taller, scooting his chair back in to lean onto the table, “But who? Who is his ally? Surely Odin or Helios would not call upon the help of Mercia to fight their war for them. They are far too prideful for that.”

“It would have to be someone who does not already have an army behind them,” Gwaine says, looking to Merlin, nodding for him to confirm his suspicions, “Merlin...”

Swallowing hard, Merlin finds it is still difficult to say her name even after all this time; not out of fear, but out of respect for Arthur, who still grieves her loss, “Morgana.” The name instantly withdraws silent groans from the men around the table, who run a hand through their hair, rub at their temples, rock back in their seats, or do anything to create movement. The information is too much to allow them to sit still.

“Slimey bastard,” mutters Gwaine from the end of the table, “Should have known a gluttonous fool like that would be seduced by her power.” The statement, while made with good intentions, does nothing to raise their king's spirits, but rather encourages his insecurities. Merlin can see it as Arthur consciously takes a breath and lowers his head to massage his brow.

“But what of Hood?” asks Elyan. “Is he on their side as well?”

Merlin shakes his head, “Robin Hood and his men have no knowledge of Vaisey's ill intent towards Arthur.”

“So it is just a coincidence, then,” says Sir Leon with a furrowed brow that exudes skepticism rather than worry, “that they have tried to kill him on multiple occasions?”

“All attempts save for the latest were not their doing,” says Merlin, “It was--”  
“It was Gisbourne's men,” Percival finishes as realization hits. He shakes his head with a humorless laugh. “And I didn't even think twice about it.”

“Nor I,” says Elyan.

“Nor did any of us,” Arthur says, dropping his hands lifelessly down onto the table. “But now we know, and we can use this to our advantage. Vaisey will continue to play nice as long as he thinks we remain unaware.”

Gwiane shifts in his seat to face them all more directly, “But what does it matter? We have our horses,” he says, extending an arm towards the door, “why not just leave before they can strike again? By the time they figure out _we_ _'d_ already figured _them_ out, we'll be safe within Camelot's borders.”

Silence falls over the room, and Gwaine seems all but beside himself that no one else thinks it's an obvious course of action. Arthur plays with the handle on his tankard, alternating between biting and pursing his lips, deep in thought. The other knights wait patiently for him to speak.

“It's...not quite so simple,” he finally says. He takes a breath, lifting his head to look around at his men, “And this is where you all have a choice to make.” Pushing his chair back, he stands, “It is no secret that we have all become fond of Lady Marian. That has become clear over the course of a mere few days. And I don't think there is one of us here, who would wish her poor fortune.” Across the table, Merlin can see Gwaine glance at a few of the others, probably wondering if this is going to lead to a marriage announcement by the sounds of it. “But she has been handed a difficult lot in life. With a big heart and an ideal outlook, she wants only what is best for that of young King Leofrick, the kingdom he is to inherit, and the people within it. And she calls upon us now for our aid. You as well as I know that Mercia is far from idyllic by anyone's standards, and that is mostly due to the man currently occupying the throne; he subjects his citizens to his greed and gluttony, leaving them to starve in poverty or be executed in defiance. I should have recognized this long ago. I should have learned more about the man I pursued as an ally long before we came here. And for that, I apologize to all of you.”

“An apology is not necessary, sire,” Elyan says. “You were trying to secure peace, not only for Camelot, but the people of Mercia as well.”

Arthur shakes his head, “A mistake, however good intentioned, is still a mistake.” He pauses, then motions to Elyan, “However you bring me to my next point: I still desire an allegiance with the good people of Mercia. And right now they are under attack from within the heart of their own kingdom. Now I have given my word to Marian that I will fight to protect them. As their loyal ally bound beneath a treaty of spirit and grace.” Arthur looks into the faces of his men, “But this is where I need to hear your decision. Tell me this is unwise, tell me this is beyond our reach and I will get on my horse and return with you all to Camelot tonight. We will fight for the people of Mercia from the comfort of our own beds, sending shipments of provisions to disburse to the people from time to time in order to prevent starvation. And war will only come if Vaisey declares it. Or...” he says, “Tell me these people are worth fighting for, tell me there are people outside of Camelot whose lives are worth our sweat and blood, tell me we can put our prosperity to good use and better the world around us. Do this and we will not only strive to keep them from death, but we will strive to _ensure_ that they are given life. You know what I would choose,” Arthur motions around him, “but I sit not at the head of the table, above you all, looking for appeasement. You are my knights for a reason, and I sit humbly at your feet, looking for guidance.”

Glancing around him, Merlin is taken back to the first meeting of the round table, but instead of a dusty castle in ruins, they sit in a dilapidated tavern that creaks with uncertainty beneath their feet. And so many important faces that once gathered with them are now missing. He knows Arthur sees that too; for he bows his head slightly, lowering his gaze as his forehead creases, not between his eyebrows where it usually does when he is cross, but at his temples where the strength in his resolve wanes, however briefly, with sadness. Soon all of the knights' eyes fall to the table, and for Merlin, the silence serves as tribute to their fallen friend, Lancelot, who would have been the first to speak up.

The sound of wood scraping against the floor turns all focus to Elyan, who scoots his chair out to stand, “Upon being knighted, we pledged ourselves to protect the innocent and punish the guilty. I intend to uphold my vow.”

“As do I,” says Leon, getting to his feet. Percival stands as well, giving a nod in agreement, followed shortly by Gwaine.

“Only because I need a challenge,” he says with a small grin that surprisingly brings out a mirrored expression on Arthur's face.

The king looks down at Merlin, “Doing this again, are we?”

“As I'm not a knight, I have made no such vow,” he says then adds, “But perhaps if you said you still _needed_ me...”

Arthur stares straight ahead, clearly amused and ruffled all at once, “I would never say that, Merlin.” He folds his arms across his chest, “However, I will say this...whether you realize it or not, you _are_ a knight of Camelot. And always have been.” The touching sentiment lasts only a moment before he adds, “Just simply lacking the prestige and chainmail...and bravery, combat skills, and general competence of warfare for that matter.”

Despite the insult, Merlin finds himself laughing lightly, even more so when he sees the smile grow on his king's face. With a jerk of his head, Arthur encourages Merlin to stand, which he does, winning him a congratulatory pat on the back from Leon beside him. Percival reaches across Leon to slap Merlin's chest, while Elyan offers brief applause and Gwaine raises his mug of mead.

“It wouldn't be the same without you, Sir Merlin.”

Arthur scrunches his face at the formal address, and holds out a steadying hand toward Gwaine, “Let's leave the title at rest for now.” The men laugh. There is no less danger, no clear solution on the horizon, and certainly no guarantee that they will be successful in however they choose to dethrone Vaisey, but with everything out in the open air, and all the men backing their king without reservation, there is a calm that pacifies the raging winds around them. Like the individual spokes of a wheel, though the road ahead is surely bumpy, they can rest easy with the knowledge that the strength of the hub they create together will keep them rolling.

“I've had a few thoughts,” says Arthur, resuming his seat at the table, his ease allowing him to enjoy his first taste of mead for the night. “Now this is not going to be an assassination. I will not shed blood and hand out death where it can be avoided...”

The knights and Merlin sit back down as well, their postures more relaxed and their tankards draining more quickly. But with the pressure in the room now lifted, something else of equal weight draws Merlin's attention to the door. A presence unseen, like a shadow in the dark – indiscernible, but radiating with an unmistakable aura. Glancing around the table, Arthur and the knights have already begun to discuss the possible details of their new mission. Clearly enthralled by their king's words, Merlin takes this opportunity to direct his gaze towards the door again, remembering how he could hear the voices of his friends through it when they first arrived.

“ _A_ _ó_ _n fu_ _â_ _ime._..” he whispers, sealing the door from prying ears; his face burns red hot when Arthur suddenly looks at him.

“What did you just say?”

“Nothing.”

“No, I definitely heard you say something.”

“I...just...” Merlin shrugs, lifting his drink, “burped. Sorry, they sometimes come out rather eloquent.” There is a long moment where Arthur studies him with a twisted expression; possibly disgust by the curl in his lip or disbelief by the dull, vacant stare in his eyes, either way Merlin is sure there is an air of annoyance in there as well. He smiles with a little laugh and another shrug.

Arthur slowly turns his attention back to his men, “As I was saying...if we can get Lord Vaisey alone then we might be able to force his hand...”

Leaning back in his chair, Merlin's heart gradually begins to slow. He takes a sip of his mead and glances toward the door, which looks no different after casting the spell, and yet somehow feels thicker, more secure. More than that, however, the haunting force that seemed to have been hovering just outside has dissipated. He furrows his brow. Surely its sudden absence is not a result of the enchantment. Regardless, Merlin tries his best to focus on what Arthur is saying, having already missed a significant portion of his presentation, but every now and then he finds his eyes drifting back to the door, wondering if they are alone.

* * *

The woods have never sounded so quiet. Waiting inside the vacant hovel, Sir Guy manages to find a few idle tapers, lighting them to illuminate the small dwelling; the air is so still he can hear the soft flicker and crack of the flame against its wick. Not even the hoot of a distant owl or the rustling of a few nocturnal vermin disturb the night's silence, and he wonders, looking around at the various poppets, poultices, vials, and herbs, if the creatures of the forest sense a predator. The only other times the woods become so hushed are when a bear or pack of wolves prowl the area. Admittedly, the threat that nests within this hut, however, is a menace far beyond that of a few petty beasts.

A crooked grin rises on Sir Guy's lips at the very thought of being in alignment with such an influence. But it vanishes as quickly as it came when the door clatters open behind him and a petite blonde crosses through the threshold. Unsheathing his sword, he thrusts his arm out, pointing the tip of his blade in her direction.

“Who are you?” he demands, taking a step closer. “Identify yourself.”

Turning to face him, the young woman pulls her necklace out from its hiding place within her bodice; the jade stone swaying slowly as it dangles in the air in front of him. She pulls the necklace over her head, her soft, innocent features becoming sharp and sullen as the chain passes over them. Her pin-straight wisps of blonde hair morph into dark ratty curls and gnarled locks of raven. And it is only after she is completely free from the pendant that her gentle blue eyes burn a deep green. Guy can do nothing but stare, looking her over as she stretches to her true height to finish off her transformation.

“Morgana...” he breathes.

“Who else would it be?” she asks, gathering the necklace into the palm of her hand, “I was the one who summoned you here, after all.” She tosses him the necklace, which he catches with ease. The gem burns against his fingers, but not unbearably so.

He furrows his brow, “It's hot.”

“Smoldering with the life force of the girl I slaughtered to achieve my disguise,” she smiles, taking a seat in her armchair, “Don't look so grievous, Sir Guy. I made sure her death was not proven to be fruitless. It was very useful indeed.”

“I always suspected you were not one to be wasteful,” he says, setting the pendent down on a credenza housing dozens of other presumably enchanted items, none of which he dares to touch. “What bounty were you able to harvest this time?”

“Validation.”

Cocking an eyebrow with uncertainty, Guy paces closer, “My Lady?”

“Validation for my impatience,” she says, the spark of mischief in her eyes dimming with festering animosity. “We were too slow and now Arthur has learned the truth.”

“How is that possible?”

Gripping the arms of her chair, she leans forward, poised to spring out of her seat, but stays where she is, “His weasel of a servant followed you here. Heard every word we said regarding the demise of his precious king.”

“You should not have played coy!” Sir Guy spits out as he makes quick strides towards the door, “Enough time has been wasted. I will send a squad out immediately to retrieve them before they can reach the border.” His feet suddenly snap together and he finds that he cannot move no matter how much he wishes it; his arms and feet bound by an invisible rope. “Do not use your sorcery on me. Release me!” Gritting his teeth, he is powerless to her will; forced to spin on his heels and face her where she now stands in the middle of the hovel, her fist raised in front of her, undoubtedly wielding the binds that hold him.

“No need to be so hasty,” she says, beckoning him closer with a finger. His feet move obediently toward her. “The men of Camelot have no intention of leaving.”

“I do not anticipate a surrender,” he comes to a stop directly in front of her, “so why do they linger?” The feminine fist clenched before him opens, withdrawing a breath of relief from him as the constraints around his body disappear, allowing him to move freely. He squares his shoulders to regain some of his dignity, though his head must remain bowed to avoid colliding with the roof.

“They have been recruited by another movement,” says Morgana. “One that will use the steward's ignorance to dethrone him. While I care little for his fate, we both know this will hinder my ascension and thus yours if you still wish to serve by my side.”

“Feigning friendship to deliver a deadly blow?” Sir Guy smirks with a shake of his head, “Not as clever a plan as I would expect from the great King Arthur.”

“There is nothing great about him. Not as king and not as a warrior. His aversion to gore makes him weak. No, he will only utilize murder as a last resort. Unfortunately I was not able to hear what they propose to do instead.” Her gaze drops to the floor. “I fear you are right...” When she lifts it to meet his eyes again, it is as if she is an entirely different person; not physically like when she first entered the hovel, but inside the tides have shifted, reflecting in the pools of emerald that stare up at him. Her voice comes out as a whisper, “I fear Emrys is here. He shields them from harm, yet he does not confront me. If he is to be my doom, why does he not just slay me down now?”

“You ask me to understand the mind of a sorcerer,” Sir Guy says, rubbing his forehead before propping a hand up on his hip, “But if you believe he is your doom, then you must also believe he is your destiny. You cannot pick and choose what of the prophecy is true, Morgana. It is either entirely true or complete nonsense. And if you believe it to be true then perhaps it is simply not your time. Perhaps you have a part yet to play in this world, and he is trying to guide you there.”

Morgana recoils from him, a sneer forming over her lips, “How dare you make him out to be a man of benevolence and me a puppet of his good will!”

“I was offering the insight _you_ asked for,” a small scowl creeps up onto his own face. “Do not call upon my counsel again if you do not wish to receive it.” She turns to pace away, but he reaches out to snatch her arm, stopping her and forcing her gaze to return to him. “Take offense if you like, but regardless of his motive, we ought to take solace in that fact that while he is busy defending your brother, he cannot simultaneously carry out an attack on you.” There is a long pause as her sharp eyes examine him closely, as if looking for something specific, but Guy cannot tell what it is. “What?”

“You have begun to show an increasing amount of concern for me, Sir Guy,” she says.

Diverting his gaze out her window, he drawls with disinterest, “I am no expert in the conduct of friendship, but is that not what two cohorts do?” His skin crawls with discomfort, and before he can be forced to endure the subject for any longer, he tries to move on, bringing his attention back to Morgana, who now carries an amused expression. He glances away again to stymie his growing irritation, “We do not know the plot Camelot's king has in store for us, but do we at least know the individual who recruited him in the first place? Is it Hood?”

“I'm afraid not,” her tone is especially captivating, causing a crease to form in the middle of his brow as he waits for her to continue. “Oh Guy...your loyalties are about to be tested.”

While her face has grown long, he cannot be sure of her sincerity, which only sets him further on edge, “Who is it then?”

She strolls away from him, her footsteps so slow, so graceful, it appears as if she is floating across the floor of the hovel; her feet and countenance too lofty to be trapped in the confines of this filthy dirt pit. “They will have to be dealt with immediately. Do you understand that?”

“Give me. The name, Morgana.”

She turns to him, the candlelight barely reaching her in the darkest end of the room, but its flame gleams against the intensity of her gaze. “I think you already know. Can you not feel it?”

In several large strides, he is in front of her; the speed of his approach causing Morgana to bump back against the table behind her. She leans back to create more space between them, but he grabs onto the rafter above their heads and bends down toward her, their lips a breath apart, his stare drilling into hers. “Don't. Toy with me. Who is it!?”

There is another pause before her mouth finally parts, “Marian.”

* * *

Her voice drifts through the quiet night air, whispering his name, and drawing his eyes up the main stairs and over to the loggia where she leans out from one of the stone arches, smiling when their eyes meet. With nothing more than an expectant raise of her eyebrows as an invitation, she ducks back into the shadows of the gallery to wait.

“Arthur,” another, far less tempting, voice says. “Have you been listening to a thing I've been saying?” Arthur looks to his side to find an exasperated servant staring at him.

“No, of course not,” he says, handing Merlin the reins of his horse. “Here. Ready my chambers for bed, I'll be there shortly.”

“It's almost midnight.” It is a statement, but Arthur knows it is more than that. It is a protest. But rather than come out and say it...

“You're being obvious again,” Arthur says, dusting himself off and straightening his hair.

“You're being cryptic again,” Merlin retorts back, frowning as he looks at Arthur's hair. “What are you doing? Are you...grooming?”

“Merlin,” Gwaine says, coming up beside them with his own horse in tow, “Don't you know it's bad form to occupy a man while a woman awaits?” He nods towards the entrance to the loggia where Marian has come to stand, her gown shining a richer hue of blue in the moon's glow. Gwaine winks at her with a wave, a sly grin forming on his lips as he looks pointedly at Arthur. “Am I right, your majesty?”

“It's not like that,” Arthur says.

Gwaine's smile only grows, “Not like what? I haven't implied a thing...Merlin, have I implied anything to the king?”

Merlin waves at Marian as well, “No...I don't believe you have.”

“Obviously something has put him on the defensive.”

“I'm not defensive,” Arthur says. “I just know what you are thinking and you're wrong.”

“Is that right, eh? What am I thinking then?” Gwaine asks, propping an arm up to lean against his horse. There is not enough time for him to answer before Merlin chimes in.

“But he's grooming...” Merlin shifts his focus from Gwaine to Arthur, “You're grooming. I can't recall the last time you did that without wanting to impress someone, sire.”

Arthur holds up a hand to stop them, it is clear the excitement of the night has pushed their cheekiness beyond the norm, and Arthur is not about to let them give him the brunt of it, “Could you both just do me a favor and shut up?”

The three stand in silence a moment before Merlin murmurs to Gwaine out of the side of his mouth, “You see what I have to put up with?” Gwaine gives a rueful shake of his head.

The king narrows his eyes, “Merlin, I'm standing right here. I can hear you.”

“I didn't say anything, sire.”

Letting out a long-suffering sigh, Arthur throws a hand out towards the other knights, who are escorting their steads to the stables, “Just...settle your horses in and get to bed, hmm?”

“Both of us?” Merlin suddenly smiles, then adds, “So you won't be _needing_ me after all.” He exchanges a glance with Gwaine that is full of too much mischief for Arthur's liking.

“My room won't ready itself, Merlin.”

“But you said to house the horses and go to bed.”

“I was talking to Gwaine.”

“I don't think so,” says Merlin. “I specifically heard you say _horses_. Plural. Which means you were talking to both of us, which means you don't _need_ me. Hmm?” The pointed look Merlin gives him makes Gwaine smile broadly. The knight tries to turn his head before Arthur can see, but he is too late. Arthur scrunches his face at the pair, glancing between them. “You don't... _need_ me?” Merlin makes it a question this time as his eyebrows shoot up to meet his hairline.

“What on earth is wrong with you two?” He props his hands on his hips, but neither of them offer an answer. Gwaine is staring at Merlin, and Merlin is staring at Arthur, who is becoming more irritated by their nonsense with every passing second. “Merlin,” Arthur says slowly, making sure his servant can understand his every syllable without mistake, “I don't know what you're playing at, but, y _es_ , I _do_ need you. So if you'd just--”

“There!” Merlin shouts with elation. “He said it!” Gwaine groans at his triumph, running a hand down his face before turning to dig into his bag. Merlin continues to laugh victoriously, gladly accepting a few coins from the knight's purse, all the while Arthur stares at them, nonplussed, watching them amuse themselves at his expense. Merlin points an excited finger in Arthur's face with another hardy laugh, “I knew you would say it eventually, sire! There's just no denying it.” Arthur snatches Merlin's outstretched finger in his fist, immediately stifling his servant's glee and wiping the smile from his face with the imminent threat.

“Merlin...are you _trying_ to make me hurt you?” he asks, his face deadpan.

“No, sire,” he says, “I would actually rather prefer it if you didn't.”

“Hmm, well...I'm going to go talk to Marian now,” Arthur bends Merlin's finger back just enough to make his servant's eyes grow into saucers, “but make me part of a bet or point in my face again, and you'll lose a finger. Do I make myself clear?” Arthur releases his grip and pats Merlin's cheek with a sudden smile. He makes for the stairs and the waiting Marian, but behind him he hears his two friends carry on.

Gwaine whispers, “So that's what a riled king looks like, eh? Fun.”

“I almost lost a finger.”

“Ah, but he needs you. And that's all that really matters, innit?”

Arthur shakes his head, quickly scaling the steps to meet Marian at the top. She leans against the archway with her arms folded lightly over her chest.

“Are your men in need of a firm hand?” she asks in amusement, obviously having been witness to the entire scene just now.

“From time to time,” he says, “Especially after they've had a few drinks. Although...with those two, I can never quite tell if it's the mead or simply their moronic tendencies coming out.” Arthur smiles as he approaches her, finding relief from the tiresome day within her company, “I thought you would have already retired for the night.”

“And miss your homecoming? I couldn't possibly,” she says, turning to walk side by side into the gallery with him. “My curiosity would have refuted any attempt at sleep.” The corridor is long and dark, amplifying their quieted voices and ringing with each and every one of their footsteps.

“I take it you will be staying here tonight then?” he says, “If not, I'd be happy to escort you back to Knighton Hall.”

“How very kind of you, but I thought you'd have learned by now,” says Marian, “I'm in no need of a knight in shining armor's protection.” She crosses in front of him, bringing them to a stop in the middle of the deserted terrace to look out over the courtyard and gardens.

He comes to stand with her, their ceased steps allowing the noiseless calm of the night to fully envelop them, leaving only the chirping crickets to serenade them, “Mine's not all that shining. You should see the state of it since Merlin's been gone.”

She smiles, shifting to lean her back against the stone railing and look up at him, “You must be glad to have him back.”

“Don't tell him,” he says, resting his hands on the stone still warm from the day's heat, peering out to where he can just barely see the knights' retreating backs; Gwaine's smooth strut gliding beside the buoyant spring in Merlin's gait. “He's already smug enough as it is, he has no right to be any more so.” He leans back in, turning to face Marian, “Nor do you, by the way.”

“Me? What have I to be smug about?”

“You...have the irritating ability of often times being right.”

“Despite your hesitation,” she says, “I am going to choose to take that as a compliment.”

“You aren't always,” he quickly adds, making sure to keep her in check, “But...particularly today...you may have been right concerning a thing or two.” He diverts his gaze down to his sleeves, which he unrolls to keep his hands busy.

“ _May_ have been?” she asks innocently enough, though her straight face holds a gleam of satisfaction in the eyes.

“Were,” he corrects begrudgingly, “You _were_ right. About most things in fact. I simply didn't listen. Thought it would be easier not to...” He sees she is already smiling, “And there it is...that smugness I warned you against.”

“I'm sorry. Shall we take a short trip into the infirmary?” She asks, nodding her head down the hallway, “Such a confession must be causing you such pain.”

He cocks a small grin of his own, “Funnily enough, just knowing I have someone with your astute intuition on my side is a sufficient remedy.”

His words, which he intended to be kind, only make her frown, “Arthur...you must know, I did not wish for my concerns to end up correct. I found myself actually hoping I had misjudged Lord Vaisey. That he was a better man than I had originally determined him to be. I just...I didn't want to be right. About Robin, perhaps, but never about the steward's plans for you.”

“I know,” says Arthur, checking the hallway to make sure they are still alone before continuing, “And he will be dealt with accordingly. My men and I have already come up with a few options which might prove to be effective in wiping clean the corruption he has allowed to spread.” He stops. The lustrous sheen of hope in her eyes stilling his breath long enough to enjoy the sight of her ardor before he must continue, “But as for Hood...”

“What about him?” And, as he suspected, the lights dim at his reluctance.

“I still cannot trust him, Marian.”

“Can't you?” she asks, “Or are you simply choosing not to?”

“I'm not sure it's always a matter of choice.”

“All I am saying,” she says, glancing over her shoulder before she steps in closer, “is before you toss away a useful ally, be sure it is being done out of careful discernment and not vengeful discrimination. Whatever you and your men choose to do, you will need all the help you can get to secure your return to Camelot with your lives. I am not asking you to be friends, I am simply suggesting that a common enemy will be more easily defeated if you two set aside your competing prides and work together.”

“A man can have two enemies. Sharing one of them with the other doesn't constitute a decent character on their behalf.” Arthur shakes his head. “I admit...I realize he has good ideas, I do, but he has a pompous attitude and reckless execution that endangers more people than is necessary. I will not put my men at risk like that, and I am surprised you would want me to.”

“I don't,” she says, furrowing her brow. “Your knights have shown me great kindness in our short amount of time together, and I would wish them no harm. I am only trying to help by pointing out what can possibly be used to your benefit. Robin knows these towns and this forest better than anyone. You cannot tell me that would not be of use to you.”

“Marian...” Arthur rubs his forehead, finding his head suffers from a dull throb whenever Hood is in discussion. Which seems to be more and more lately. He starts to turn towards the window again, hoping a bit of fresh air will distract him from the topic, but Marian catches him by his arm, forcing him to look at her.

“Did you not just say that I am insufferably right most of the time? What about now? What if I am right about this and you refuse to listen?”

He studies her earnest face a moment before shrugging with a sigh, “The truth is...I honestly don't even know what you see in him that you must defend so endlessly.”

“I see the same qualities I see in you,” says Marian. She slides her hand down his arm to clutch his large, calloused hand in between both of her gentle ones, “A man of action, guided by your gentle heart to uphold the morals you hold so dear; you do not sit by and let people suffer, but show a resilient strength for justice and mercy, which you will fight to gain for those you love and those you do not even know.” Her visage remains strong, but the flutter of her eyes betray the sheepishness she feels in bestowing such kind words. “All the while you nurture an uncommon humility for someone of your renown, but with the infuriating capability to be consumed and contradicted by your stubborn pride. It is as if you two are cut from the same fabric and yet I must fight tooth and nail to defend Robin's accusations against you, and yours against Robin. I grow weary of it, and I am finished with it...But if nothing else, do me one favor and tell me this: how can two men of such greatness be stuck in the mire of such childish resentment?”

It is high praise and a wrenching insult, all at once, that Arthur struggles to grasp for several moments. He searches her face, hoping he will somehow be able to draw out the wisdom she seems to have in overabundance to give a reply worthy of all she has said. But the earnest passion riddled within her eyes, forces him to lower his gaze to their hands; he brings up his free one to rest it lightly over hers, both pairs of hands now combined in a perfect mass of woven fingers. He finally speaks.

“Every time I see him...all I can think about are the wrongs I have committed against you.”

“You are guilty of nothing, Arthur,” Marian says, and he cannot hide from her; her petite stature making it all too easy for her to look up into his face. “I wish you would let me tell him that.”

Arthur meets her eyes, “I thought you said you were done in matters concerning us.”

She stares at him before giving a resolute nod, “I am. Of course, I am. So...I suppose you'll have handle this yourself. However you choose.” He resists a smile; her devotion always driving her into the thick of battles and arguments is an endearment he does not take for granted, and one he enjoys watching her unleash against her own attempts at self-restraint.

“I gave Robin my word I would meet him in Locksley tomorrow,” Arthur says. “And while the entire deal seems a bit pointless now given...recent developments, I will go with an open mind and leave my – how did you say it? – 'infuriating pride' behind.”

“ _Stubborn_ pride, actually,” says Marian, “which can _be_ infuriating. I think that's what I said.”

The corner of Arthur's mouth twitches upwards, “Ah, yes. How could I forget such poetry? But I think I prefer the other bits you said about me. You said them so well...what were they?”

She shakes her head, “If you think I am going to repeat them to satisfy your hunger for praise...”

“They were such lovely words, though.”

“Then you had better do your best to recall them yourself,” she says as she pushes their interlaced hands against his chest to give him a scolding nudge. “But right now, rather than hear you compliment yourself, I would be so very grateful if you told me, instead, the details of what I have stayed up so late to hear.”

“Ah yes, I wondered when you would prompt me for more.”

“Well...patience is a virtue,” she says with a smile, then adds as an afterthought, “Apparently.”

Arthur raises his eyebrows, “I see...getting lessons on that as well as restraint, are you? Sir Guy must be--”

“Must be what?” A smooth, but heavy voice interrupts, descending like the thick morning fog and shattering their night of solitude.

* * *

“Sir Guy!” Marian says, clearly surprised, though the way the two separate like the splintering wood off a door being kicked in is already telling of their shock. Looking between them, Guy's belly burns with a heat he is sure could produce fire if he opens his mouth to release it. As much as he would like to believe they were using their time together solely to conspire against the steward as Morgana warned him, he cannot fool even himself into ignoring their closeness, the fondness in Marian's eyes. He does not have to see blatant affection to know it is there.

While they both make an effort to maintain a composed exterior, Marian is slightly more successful with her chin held high and her hands clasped neatly in front of her. Beside her, however, the hypocrite who sets Guy's teeth on edge upon the very sight of him stands with his hands on his hips, looking at him with wide, expectant eyes.

Guy looks at her from beneath his lowered brow as he takes a few steps closer, “Marian, it's late. You should not be out here. With him. What are you doing?”

Arthur leads with a gesture of his hand as he also steps in closer, “We were just--”

“Do not speak for her!” Guy lashes out sharply, snatching the front of Arthur's tunic, but before either of them can make another move, Marian has one hand on Guy's chest and the other on her conspirator's arm, staying his clenched fist. Guy wishes desperately she would release Arthur so he can let it fly, freeing up the validation he needs to strike Camelot's ruler and feel his fair skin break beneath the fury his knuckles.

“No!” Marian pushes them further apart. She stands firmly between them, but stays facing Sir Guy, who resents that even his raging pulse is unable to diminish the beautiful purity of her pale features beneath the night's radiance. “We were talking, Guy. We are allowed to talk, but _you_ are not allowed to treat our guest in such a manner of disrespect!”

“His conduct toward you has been lacking in propriety since he first arrived!”

The king's face contorts, his posture bristling with offense, “I have _never_ \--”

Marian interrupts him before he can get any farther, her focus remaining on Sir Guy, “You concern yourself with matters that are no business of yours. If you have only come to scold us for wrongdoings based purely on speculation then I do not wish to hear what you have to say. If, however, you have come with another agenda, then I am more than willing to listen. Which is it?”

Guy glowers, his entire body rigid with pent up wrath that cannot be unleashed, so much so, he can barely part his lips to mutter words. “King Leofrick is calling for you.”

“I am not his caretaker tonight. Delia is supposed to be--”

“You will deny him then? Refuse to soothe his fright so you might comfort another?” He asks, his accusatory eyes snapping to the blonde warrior behind her. Camelot's king stares at him with an intensity Guy has not yet seen from him, the resemblance he has with his sister becoming all too clear as he sets his jaw firmly in place, the muscles rippling beneath the surface, and all emotions they struggle to detain escaping through the transparency of his eyes. He has seen it all before, but instead on a face of feminine allure.

“There is no need to be hostile, Sir Guy,” Marian says, resting a hand on his arm. Her gentle touch, the melody in her voice, keeping the savage beast prowling within him at bay. “And while I do not appreciate your insinuations, I will grant your request and the request of the king.” She glances over her shoulder to Arthur before meeting Guy's eyes, “Would you like to escort me there now?”

Motioning a hand out in front of him, Sir Guy gestures for her to lead the way, but she links her arm in his, and he suspects it is to prevent him from being left behind with the king for even the shortest amount of time. Wise.

“I will take that as my leave then,” says Arthur. “I wish you both a restful night. Marian...” He gives a nod in departure, hesitating, before offering another, “Sir Guy...” His eyes, cold and calculating, meet Guy's one last time, and there is something there in the king's expression that almost amuses the man standing victoriously at Marian's side. A threat, perhaps? Silent, but clear.

The farther he and Marian get from Camelot's high ruler, the more Guy can feel his anger giving way and being replaced by a tightening in his chest; his palms grow clammy and he becomes increasingly aware of what lays hidden deep within the pocket of his jacket, resting heavily against his ribs like a block of ice, it's potent chill stinging harshly against his skin.

“Sir Guy...” Marian's voice interrupts his thoughts. They had remained quiet up until this point. “Are you alright?” She asks. She slows their pace as they round a corner, looking up at him with concern. His movements feel disjointed, and he is sure she can see every bead of sweat forming along his brow. “Guy,” she says again, more urgently, “If something's wrong, you must tell me.”

Swallowing hard, he checks their surroundings for any unwanted witnesses, “Marian...do not think poorly of me.”

She frowns, “Poorly? Why would --” Her voice fades from him, he pushes it out of his mind, not able to stand the sound of her dulcet tones, not now, not when he knows what he must do.

He lowers his gaze and reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket, casually at first, then with a sudden fervor, ripping the handkerchief free – its stale and bitter scent now loose in the open air – before smothering it over her nose and mouth as he captures her tightly around the waist with her back against his chest. Beneath his palm, he can feel her lips moving, struggling to cry out.

She struggles wildly against him; clawing at his hands and arms in a frenzy. Nothing he hasn't dealt with before from the desperate escape attempts of local peasants unwilling to surrender, but it is when she gathers herself that his defenses begin to falter. Reaching up to grab a fistful of his hair, she yanks his head painfully to the side and stomps on his foot before knocking the rag from his hand and pivoting to swing her elbow into his jaw. The pain radiates up the side of his face with a blinding light and a shout. She grabs the lapels of his jacket, making it impossible for him to shrink away from the bludgeoning of her knee being thrust repeatedly up into his gut, but Guy manages to grab her leg, sweeping it out from under her, and flinging her to the floor to land flat on her back.

Grabbing the discarded rag off the floor, he advances on her, but she is too quick. She stomps her foot out at his groin, sending him reeling backwards with another shout that harbors more rage than it does pain, though there are surely equal amounts of both. In his moment of weakness, she scrambles to her feet, and hikes up her mass of skirts, to deliver a resounding kick to the side of his head. The sharp edge of her heel collides with the vulnerable flesh of his temple, sending him sprawling.

Guy's vision flashes white. A high-pitched buzz forming from the recesses of his mind, growing stronger and louder, making it more difficult to orient himself. He is only vaguely aware of the hard brick beneath his palms and cheek as he lies on the floor of the corridor. With a shake of his head, he forces himself to get up, the world around him teetering, and his feet struggle to grab hold.

A blur knocks into his shoulder, thrusting him back against the wall, and it is only when he realizes it is Marian that his determination and adrenaline snap his perceptions back into focus. “Marian!” He rushes after her as she tries to flee down the hall, though her graceful movements have been compromised by the effects of the chloroform, causing her, too, to stumble and weave. She is too fast for him. Just as she is about to round a corner and slip out of sight, Guy watches as Marian skids to a stop. Emerging from the very hall she hoped to find her escape, is the dark silhouette of Morgana. In no rush, and not in the least bit flustered, the High Priestess comes to hold her stance strongly before her. She offers a sardonic smile.

“Marian...I had hoped we would have a more pleasant reunion,” she says, glancing down the hall and drawing Guy closer with her gaze. She returns her focus to the woman in front of her, “It's funny, isn't it? I once thought we would make great partners.”

“I won't let you hurt him, Morgana.”

“No?” Her face twists with scorn. “Then _stop_ me.” She throws her hand forward, her eyes blazing with fire as Marian is flung from her feet and tossed carelessly down the gallery. Guy ducks out of the way, a knot forming at the very center of his being when there is a thud. All goes quiet.

Slowly. Ever so slowly, Guy turns to see the carnage. Lifeless in the middle of the hallway, Marian lies with her legs curled awkwardly beneath her, her arms flayed out at her sides, and her hair, in disarray, concealing most of her face. Sir Guy hurries to her side, taking a knee to inspect her more closely. He brushes a few curls from her face, allowing the backs of his fingers to caress her cheek as he does so. She is fair as ever, and if he has to guess, he would say this is how she appears when sound asleep in her own bed. The rhythmic clack of Morgana's footsteps draws Guy's attention behind him to where she approaches.

“Pity. She could have been useful,” she says. “If only she had not succumbed to the lure of my dear brother's pious ways...”

Guy sets his jaw at the mere mention of him, silently working on gathering Marian into his arms; he slips one hand gently beneath her head, but before he can get any farther, Morgana is suddenly kneeling at his side.

“You did the right thing, Sir Guy,” she rests a hand on his shoulder. “Everything must be done to ensure Arthur does not succeed. Nothing will be in vain. He has already taken everything from me, and if we are not careful, he will do the same to you. Truth be told...” Morgana reaches down to set another one of Marian's curls into its proper place, “I suspect he has already begun to steal from you something that is quite precious indeed.”

A moment of silence is all it takes for the knot in his chest to tighten until it is intolerable. He shakes his head, “No...he can take nothing from me.” He meets Morgana's eyes, “She has made her choice and I have made mine.”

“Well, then...” she smiles, standing, the black feathers of her cloak dancing in the light draft that circulates the corridor. “Let's get to work, shall we?”

 


	8. Chapter Eight

 

 

It is morning. The clatter of hooves against the cobblestone slices through the crisp air of the courtyard as Arthur and his men prepare their horses, sleep still apparent on some of their faces. It is a funny thing, these early rises. No matter how many times the king and his knights must wake to greet the dawn, they can never easily depart from the warm embrace of their beds, yet at the same time, they dare not waste away any new day given to them. The number of sunrises they have left to witness is not written in stone, and while sleeping beneath the same roof as a jewel-toothed sadist it all seems so much more uncertain. Arthur checks the front stairs of the castle, as if the mere thought of Lord Vaisey will have caused him to materialize, but there is no sign of him. Hardly disappointing. Still, of those milling about the square there is someone of particular importance missing, and her absence is considerably more unfortunate.

“I told you, little man,” Percival's voice draws Arthur's attention, “I don't know where yours is, but you try to take mine again and I'll skin _you_.” The sleeveless knight towers over Gwaine as he takes the full waterskin from his friend's grasp to secure it back onto his saddle.

“Why is it I'm always to blame for things being misplaced?” Gwaine asks. “Maybe that one is mine and you misplaced yours.”

After all their time together, an unspoken morning time etiquette has developed among the knights, and if not heeded, they all know the day ahead is bound to be miserable. It is common knowledge that Gwaine is usually his sassiest after just waking, which requires delicate handling if one is to avoid the hot-headed aftereffects of any offense he takes, and unfortunately, Percival prefers to simply be left alone until he has had time to soak in the peace of the morning which he then uses to transcend the rest of his day. It has been proven time and again that tranquility and guff do not play nice together. One wrong interaction between these two, and they are both insufferable.

“Are you sure you didn't leave it in your room?” Elyan asks, trying to divert Gwaine's attention and give Percival the space he requires. At least someone remembers the etiquette. Then again, Elyan can always be counted on to mediate and lift the spirits of those around him no matter the time of day. It is a miracle the way he seems to wake with a hope and lie down to rest with the same unwavering optimism. There is a calm that he creates which is so similar to the one that Gwen achieved merely by entering a room. It is as if they are pillars, holding up a crumbling roof, and allowing those trapped beneath it more room to breathe.

“We're all grown men here,” says Leon, the resolute voice of reason. “Let's not embarrass ourselves by acting otherwise.” Possibly the one that needs the least maintenance of them all, Leon requires very little in the morning aside from a hot drink and a douse of water to the face. “Take mine for now.” He holds out his own bladder by the neck, but Gwaine waves it off.

“It's not a matter of necessity, it's a matter of property,” he throws an accusatory glance Percival's way, this morning's brooding ripe with the lack of sleep Arthur knows Gwaine sacrificed to stand guard at his door half the night.

“Gwaine...” Arthur tries to interject, but he only manages to make his attempted contributions known to the two knights not in need of composure.

It is clear Percival's patience is growing thin as he turns to his friend, “It's going to be a matter of health if you don't drop it.”

The side of Gwaine's mouth curves upward in a bitter smile, “I'd like to see that.” He snatches the waterskin from Percival's saddle, “Look. Red threading...like mine. Cracked cork...like mine.”

As the nettled knight continues to demonstrate the finer points of the bladder, Arthur makes his way around his steed to better join the group, drawing his sword as he goes. He tries his best to stop it, but he feels his lips giving way to a smile. “Gwaine...” he repeats, catching his attention this time. Using the tip of his blade, Arthur pushes the folds of Gwaine's cloak aside to reveal his hip where an identical, albeit seemingly empty, waterskin already hangs from his belt. All eyes fall to it, producing smiles from some, snickers from many, and a shameful sigh from one.

Percival's smile is the largest. “I'll just be taking _this_ then _,_ ” he says, reclaiming what it rightfully his and basking in a satisfied drink from it.

“I swear it wasn't there before,” says Gwaine, ripping it from his belt in annoyance.

Elyan nods, thoughtfully, “A gnome must have planted it on you while you weren't looking.”

Putting his weapon back in its sheath, Arthur notices Gwaine watching him, most likely trying to avoid the taunts of his comrades, but he cannot let him off so easily. The king grasps his friend's shoulder, talking to him carefully as one would to a child, “Don't worry, mate, this is _my_ sword. _Yours_ is right _here_...see it?” He pats the hilt of Gwaine's blade, a broad smile on his face.

Gwaine grins with a little laugh, “You're lucky you're royalty.” He gives Arthur's face a light slap before turning to Leon, who is in the middle of adjusting his cloak.

Leon pauses, the clasps still in his hands, “I didn't take it from you, I swear.”

“Ha ha, yes, let's get it all out now,” Gwaine says as he spreads his arms and turns for them all to observe him as a spectacle, “Yes, I am an idiot and, yes, you are all just _so_ hilarious.” This ignites a round of laughter that continues though Arthur's falters at the sound of his name being called.

Hope begins to rise when he sees Merlin bounding down the stairs towards him. “Any sign of her?” Arthur asks, moving back around his horse to meet his servant, whose mouth is slack as he huffs for air, shaking his head.

“Nothing,” Merlin says, and Arthur's eyes lift to the imposing wall of the castle before them. He scans its windows and terraces as if his brief surveillance will offer more results than the thorough sweep Merlin had given it.

“You're sure you checked everywhere?”

“Every corner, every cranny,” he says, propping his hands up on his hips to aid in his breathing. “Some places twice...not intentionally, but--”

“She'd want to be a part of this.” Arthur's brow knits tightly together, and he returns his focus to his horse, but he stops as soon as he started, turning to Merlin once more, “And you checked her chambers?”

“Well, I know I don't have your strategic prowess, sire, but believe it or not, I did think to check her personal quarters, yes.”

Arthur lets out a breath, his eyes shifting to the loggia where he and Marian spoke just last night, where he and Guy had nearly broken all pretenses to express their dislike for one another, where his own integrity was put into question after being treated unjustly like “the other man” – as some might choose to call such a person. The two of them had done nothing wrong, it was a simple misunderstanding, and yet the look on Sir Guy's face is not one Arthur will easily be able to forget. There was a moment of stoic calm before the rage of jealousy and fury at her perceived infidelity took hold. Perhaps it looked similar to his own expression that night in Camelot's counsel chambers all those months ago.

Just as Arthur is about to return his attention to his servant, he is surprised to find that, this time, his thoughts have successfully summoned the man in question, and Sir Guy strides out from within the castle as two guards hoist open the heavy wooden doors for him. He stops at the top of the stairs, surveying the knights, though he pretends not to notice Arthur looking back at him, instead busying himself with fitting his black leather gloves over his hands.

“Arthur?” Merlin asks with concern.

“Continue the preparation,” says Arthur, “I'll only be a moment.” He starts across the square, his boots creating a dull thud with every step, a thud Guy must have taken notice of because as Arthur ascends the stairs to meet him, the man in black does not even lift his gaze before addressing him.

“Are you sure it's wise for you and your men to be dressed in all your glory?” Guy's cold, apathetic eyes finally meet Arthur's. “It makes an easier target of you all.”

Arthur offers a tentative smile, “I thought that would be to your advantage after last night.”

“Is that supposed to be clever?”

“No...” Arthur's face falls, the need to be congenial not pressing enough to warrant another attempt at being lighthearted. “It's supposed to be a lead into an apology.” There is no response, only a slight lift in Guy's left eyebrow. “I fear you may have gotten the wrong idea about what you saw.”

Folding his arms across his chest, the man in black takes to surveying the courtyard again, “And what is your remorse for? For my lack of discernment in the situation or for having to make excuses for your untoward behavior? Either way, you'd be controverting your responsibility in the matter and therefore I am not interested in what it is you have to say, your majesty. But if you would, I have business to attend to, and your men seem eager to set their sights on Locksley.” He glances over Arthur's head, then adds before leaving, “Besides...the time for words is over.”

Sir Guy's shoulders hunch up toward his ears with an overabundance of tension as he leaves Arthur in his wake, motioning for a few guards to follow after him as he disappears into the very gallery the king had been eying earlier, no longer a secluded place for two friends to trade thoughts in the dead of the night, but a heavily traveled passageway brimming with servants and soldiers anxious to fulfill their daily duties.

It is not often Arthur is brushed off so coldly, like a fly swatted from an unwelcoming shoulder. He stands alone on the top step, a bit unsure of what to do after such an encounter, though he finds himself going over all of Guy's words with a whole new insight. Not long ago he thought the man merely despised him, but now, knowing all that has come to light, each word that slips from his mouth seems more ominous. More calculated. _The time for words is over._ Somehow that last statement seemed to stretch beyond the confines of their personal vendettas to encompass a much larger realm; one that will be dealt with soon enough.

With nothing left to do but turn back to his men, Arthur is surprised to find that they have been joined by a guest; a reprieve among the ill-mannered that stalks them, and a ray of much needed light amidst the gloom that surrounds them. At the foreground of the mass of knights and saddled horses is Merlin, crouching down in front of Leo, who must have arrived while Arthur was momentarily detained. The small king prances in place with great excitement, his hands cupping something being handed gingerly over to him.

“What have you got there?” Arthur asks Leofrick as he approaches them.

Merlin glances at the castle before looking up at him, “That wasn't very long-lived, was it?”

“He wasn't feeling especially chatty today.”

“Strange,” says Merlin, “He's usually so jovial.”

Arthur cracks a smile with a chuckle, but before he can respond Leo juts his clasped hands up towards him, “It's a secret!”

“Ah, is it now?” Arthur stoops down to join his two friends in their little meeting, his cloak puddling around his feet until his boots can no longer be seen. “Well, I just happen to be quite the skilled...uh, secret keeper,” he says, unable to think of a better title for it.

“Since when?” Merlin asks with a puzzled look on his face.

“Since always, Merlin, shut up,” Arthur says, glancing at Leofrick to make sure his heroic reputation had not been shattered by one contradiction, but the little boy stands patiently with his hands folded out in front of him, protecting the treasure within.

“It's magic...” Leo whispers, his eyes wide with excitement as he divulges the news. Raising his eyebrows, Arthur glances at Merlin before returning his attention to Leo, who slowly opens his hands.

“Is that...” Arthur furrows his brow, “...a biscuit?” He was hoping for something that holds more intrigue than a dainty dessert, but he feels Merlin backhand his arm lightly.

“Quite the miracle, eh?” The look in his servant's eyes silently encourage him to show more enthusiasm as the merriment on little Leo's face is slowly fading; his gaze falling to the cookie and his lips puffing out into a small pout.

“Oh, yes!” Arthur beams as he starts to play along, “Quite the miracle.” The boy's smile returns, and Arthur rests a hand on Merlin's shoulder, “Did you conjure that yourself, Merlin?”

“He did!” Leo shouts, clearly not worried about keeping things under wraps anymore. Merlin shrugs with a bashful smile that almost looks genuine. Should have known he'd be gifted at children's games.

“All this time, Merlin? And here I thought you always took the time to bake my desserts with your loving hands,” Arthur gives a nod to motivate his friend. “Go on then, I need to see this for myself. Care to conjure another?”

Merlin hisses with a grimace, “Ooh, sorry, sire...I'm afraid such magic cannot be called upon at will and can only be produced for those of worth who do not ask for it.”

While the rules of such magic brings a delighted giggle from Leofrick, who starts eating away at his treat, Arthur scrunches his face at the spouted rubbish. Even imaginary sorcery proves to be a nuisance against him.

“Right, how foolish of me to assume otherwise,” Arthur says.

“But remember,” Merlin speaks softly to Leo, holding a finger up to his lips. The hush-hush of it all stunning Leo, who freezes in place, allowing several crumbs to fall from his mouth. “This is our secret. Don't go telling your handlers that I've been stuffing you full of treats so early in the morning.”

The little king shakes his head vigorously to show his dedication to the promise, withdrawing a nod of gratitude from Merlin. Arthur, however, perks up when something dawns on him.

“Handler...” he murmurs before shifting to face Leofrick better. “Leo, you wouldn't happen to know where Lady Marian is, would you?” The boy shakes his head, though with much less intensity. “You haven't seen her since last night?”

“Dinner,” he says, smacking his lips that are littered with leftover morsels of cookie and powdered sugar.

Arthur furrows his brow, “You...haven't seen her since dinner yesterday?” Another head shake. “But you called for her late in the night. Did she ever come to your room?” Leofrick says nothing, only stares at him with a face full of confusion.

“Arthur...I don't think he knows anything about that,” says Merlin.

“I was sleeping,” Leo offers, though it is of minimal help. Arthur nods, trying to make sense of things. There are any number of explanations. It is possible Leofrick did, in fact, have a nightmare, but by the time Marian got to him, he had already fallen back asleep. And perhaps given the fact that she was not needed, she decided to return to Knighton Hall for the night after all. Arthur knows the worry one must endure with an ailing parent, and the constant impulse that keeps you wanting to be at their side as much as possible.

He glances over his shoulder to the archway through which Sir Guy disappeared, sure that the man in black would have some sort of answer, being perhaps the last one to see her, but given the events of the previous evening, all inquiries as to Marian's whereabouts are best left unspoken.

“Well, your majesty,” Arthur says to Leo, “my men and I should be off, but I trust you will be practicing your swordsmanship while we're gone?” Leofrick nods with a large smile, and Arthur ruffles his head of curls, “Good. Now I think someone is waiting on you...” He points toward the fragile young ginger waiting at the side of the square, her eyes snapping to her feet when she accidentally meets Arthur's gaze. He wonders briefly if that is Delia, the caretaker Marian referred to before.

As the little king departs, Arthur and Merlin stand to their full height, stretching out their legs. Merlin is already looking at Arthur, apparently expecting instructions before his king has even eluded to having any for him.

“Merlin, I want you and Sir Leon to go to Knighton. See if Marian is there, and if she is, bring her to Locksley.”

“What if she isn't?” Merlin asks.

“Come to Locksley just the two of you,” he says, “you're not getting out of this that easily.”

“Do I ever?” he turns to seek out Leon, but Arthur takes a step after him.

“Merlin,” he waits until he has his servant's attention before jerking a thumb towards the departing king of Mercia and his maidservant. “That biscuit...” he says with a less than impressed shrug, “you nicked it from the kitchens during your search, didn't you?”

“No, sire,” says Merlin, “Haven't you figured it out yet? I _am_ a sorcerer.”

Arthur lets out a snort at the very idea, “Honestly, Merlin, the day you don't need a snack break in the middle of every task I give you will be a true day of remembrance. Let's strive for that day, shall we?” He turns to his men, who have all begun to mount their horses. There is not always a need to call them to their saddles; sometimes instincts kicks in, the air shifts, and they all simply know: Time to go.

They are a flurry of crimson and sheen as their capes sail behind them and their armor reflects the rising sun, galloping through the city of Nottingham, drawing the awe of those lucky to be up early enough to witness their parade as it careens through the streets. Keeping formation, they do not break from their tight cluster until they are beyond the town gates, entering into the freedom of the lush fields and towering forests ahead, Merlin and Leon splitting off like a rogue flare from the mother flame, setting their sights on Knighton.

* * *

“You seem pleased, Merlin,” says Leon as the two trot along the Great North Road, the trees of the forest around them stretching up so high they seem to wane beneath the weight of their leaves, and lean toward the opposing side to create a tunnel, shielding the two riders from the sun, which only intensifies with every passing moment.

Pleased? Oh, of course. It is then that the young warlock realizes he has been smiling. He can't be sure how long the grin has been plastered to his face, but there is no denying that he is pleased, indeed. Just like the trees, Merlin has been bearing his own weight, and it has left him struggling to stand tall for so long, but today he was able to lighten the load that plagues him. Even if only for a moment. The words always sat at the very tip of his tongue, crouched and poised to pounce out from behind his teeth, only to be bitten back for his sake, for the sake of Arthur, but today...today he let them fly. _I am a sorcerer._ And it has made for a good day.

Of course Leofrick was the only one to believe him, he would expect nothing less, but that did not diminish the full effects of his blatant confession. Like a bird jumping into flight, a drowning soul breaking through the water's surface for a breath of air, Merlin is feeling alive.

“I just have a good feeling about today,” he says.

“Do you?” Leon lets out a little laugh, “That's quite a swap, isn't it? You are generally so cautious, but today I think the lads and I are more weary than you apparently are.”

“I just think we're headed in the right direction,” says Merlin. “Arthur isn't being rash, he's admitted his misjudgment, he has a plan, and he's giving Hood a chance.”

“You trust him then. Hood?”

“I take it you still don't?”

Sir Leon seems to think this over, leaving them both to ride in silence for a few paces, “I admit, I would like to, but the stain of bad blood does not easily wash away.”

“Do you know anything about it?” Merlin asks. He is sure if anyone on the outside will know anything about the wedge that has divided these two men, it would be Leon. Raised as a nobleman, Leon's family brought him up from a young age to be a knight of Camelot, and he has no doubt that they also endeavored to befriend the Pendragons, not just with the intent of advancing their family, but also out of pure loyalty, the same which has been demonstrated through Leon's very own service to the throne. “Do you know what happened?”

“I have only pieces of the story,” he says, the words making Merlin's heart race with anticipation, “Unfortunately the mortar that fills the gaps is made up of nothing more than rumors, and I dare not give them credibility.”

“No...no...” Merlin agrees thoughtfully with a distant voice, his eyes wandering to the right where the trees break open to reveal the first bunch of thatch roofs that make up the borders of Knighton. “But...based on what you _do_ know for certain, are there any theories that can be postulated?” He tries to keep his words relaxed, not wanting to stifle Leon's information by showing his eagerness for some tidbit that might help him understand.

“Well,” Leon pauses to think, the nonchalance in Merlin's poise loosening the knight's tongue, “I suppose it might have something to do with Marian. The three of them were quite close as children.” Merlin bites down on his lower lip, wanting to ask questions to press him further, but he waits patiently as he sees more words forming behind Leon's eyes. “And, as you may know, the two were promised for marriage at a very young age.”

Merlin stares at him, “...Arthur and Marian?”

“Ah, so you didn't know,” Leon nods, “King Uther and King Bayard thought their union would also unite their kingdoms on a more permanent basis. Obviously the deal did not stand.”

“Do you know why?”

“That is where the rumors come in,” says Leon, slowing the gait of his horse as they approach the edge of town, Merlin's follows suit, “I am not sure anyone knows the real reason apart from those directly involved, and none of them seem to be bursting with a desire to set the record straight. At any rate, it is none of our business.”

Perhaps not, but that has never stopped Merlin before.

The young warlock follows Leon as he snakes his way through the huts where citizens are busy toiling away in their gardens or chicken coops, or are fast at work over their chosen craft; an elderly woman looks up at them from her seat outside her home where she sits weaving a basket. Some of the reeds are carefully interlaced already to show the form of her basket's base, while other long, wild reeds shoot out from the lacing, yet to be tamed by her nimble fingers. Merlin offers a timid “good morning” before pressing on toward what he can only assume is Knighton Hall, a rather large estate in comparison that sits tucked away near the forest's edge.

“Let us hope she is here,” says Leon as he kicks his feet from his stirrups and dismounts, “There is no telling what the others will encounter today, and I will want to be at their side when they face it.” Merlin must hurry to keep up with the knight, hopping down from his saddle and running to catch him as he approaches the front door. A hardy knock. Then silence. No answer. They exchange glances before Leon raises his fist to attempt another go at it. Nothing.

Glancing over his shoulder, Merlin notices that anyone within distance is watching them. He is used to being on the coattail of a man worthy of attention, but this time the faces do not reflect awe as they often times do, but there is another emotion consuming their features. What is it? Merlin's eyes flit from person to person as an unaware Leon brushes by him to look in the front window. None of the villagers move, even their hands are stilled as their attentions are rapt by them. The woman no longer weaves, though a reed remains poised in her grasp. She gives the smallest shake of her head, causing Merlin's brow to knit together.

Suddenly he is being pushed out of the way. “Stand clear, Merlin,” Leon says with a tone that is no longer casual, but brimming with the intensity the knights were trained to perform with. Throwing his shoulder into the door, it easily gives way beneath Leon's large stature – too easily – causing the knight to stumble across the threshold. This latch has been broken before. Merlin following close behind, but not before taking one last look at the old woman, still as ever.

“My lord!?” Leon calls out from inside, “Lady Marian!?”

Inside, Leon has already vacated the main room to investigate the adjoining one, leaving Merlin to soak in the scene before him. It is nothing of shock as he had expected, but he knows what has alarmed the knight. A bowl of breakfast porridge sits abandoned at the table, the chair at its place-setting has been knocked from its feet, leaving it to lay haphazardly on its side, one of the back spindles cracked in half. Beside it on the floor is a wooden spoon. Bits of the stew still cradled in the head of the utensil, though other bits are splattered on the ground nearby. The taper that lit the morning meal is short. It still burns, though the brass holder is concealed almost entirely by melted wax that has spilled over and cooled, with little left to hold the wick. The flame flickers. A small wisp of grey smoke rising from it. It will not be able to sustain much longer.

The weight returns. Merlin can feel it bearing down on him, his mind becoming muddled like an open window slowly becoming veiled in cobwebs until the fresh breeze and clarity of the sunlight cannot permeate its fibers Something is wrong. Not just in circumstance, but in the very air around them. He can feel it.

“Merlin,” Leon says as he strides quickly back into the room to meet him, “Check the upstairs, would you?” He disappears through another door, leaving Merlin to follow the line of the bannister and look towards the second floor.

As soon as he steps through the door at the top, he knows he is standing in Lady Marian's room. Several vases of flowers scatter the room, and Merlin can't help but wonder if they are a product of someone's insistent affections, or merely a result of her love for the outdoors. Either seems possible, though he cannot imagine her going out of her way to pick flowers for the sole benefit of her room's décor. But he soon realizes that perhaps they serve an entirely different purpose. Their scent is strong, filling most of the room with the sweet floral aroma, but there is something else that joins it. Something he has smelled before; bitter, earthy, and though he can't quite place it, he can only think of Gaius.

Merlin furrows his brow when the old physician's face comes to mind. It seems an arbitrary image to have stirred up by such a scent. He takes several more steps into the room, already certain that there is no one here, but his focus is now not on what is missing, but what lingers behind.

A hutch stands in the corner of the room with a particularly large vase sitting on top of it; the doors are a dark cherry with intricate designs engraved on the front. It is locked. Merlin frowns. Had it been unlocked, he might have easily lost interest, but there is an inexplicable rise in curiosity knowing that someone – in this case Marian – wants to keep what is hidden behind these doors a secret. He raises a hand, only to have it falter briefly as he wonders if this intrusion is against the average code of friendship. Clearing his throat, he glances toward the door before setting his gaze on the lock of the hutch again, “ _Tospringe_...” Click. The doors sway open a crack.

Swinging them on their hinges, Merlin exposes the shelves inside and all they contain. It becomes quite clear why Gaius came to mind as he stares at various vials, bottles, boxes, pouches, and poultices that are usually littered about Gaius's clinic on a daily basis. And the smell! All at once, his nose is assaulted by peppermint, fluxweed, goosegrass, rose oil, honeywater, vinegar, lavender, and a dozen other aromas – though he cannot tell what he was able to determine purely by smell and what he imagined due to seeing the labels on the containers before him. It should be no surprise, since she has, after all, taken on the practice of medicine. But then why hide it? Why lock it away?

Amidst the glasses, a small, crude wooden box sits near the front of the hutch, and though he can't quite explain it, it captures his attention, calling to him like a pestering itch. He checks over his shoulder again. Sir Leon must still be busy scouring the first floor. Or so Merlin hopes. Lifting the lid from the base of the box, he pulls back a small piece of burlap to reveal a set of bangles; each one made of two silver rims that don't quite touch to prevent them from creating a full circle, laced together with a myriad of complex scrolls and leaves of gems between them. Opposite the gap in the bracelet is a single black diamond. They were beautiful. But hardly medicinal like everything else in this cabinet.

The longer he stares at the pair, the more they begin to trouble him. And what is troublesome is the effect they seem to have on him. He is a simple man of few desires, but the more he looks at the jewelry in front of him, the more it calls to him. No, it doesn't call. It _sings_. In his mind he can hear it; a high, melodious ring, like if the echo of silver tapping against a crystal goblet had a voice. Magnificent. His hand hovers just above them, and he is not sure when he started to reach for them. He had not even noticed his own hand move. Not felt it. He only felt _them_. The bangles. His fingertips start to lower towards them.

“Merlin!” Sir Leon's voice shatters the sorcerer's trance as definitively as a rock through a pane of glass. Merlin quickly shuts the cabinet, cutting off the music from his head, and turns just as the knight runs into the room. “Didn't you hear me calling you?”

“I...no,” he says, deciding to keep it simple. He preferred not to admit he had been too enraptured by a piece of jewelry to notice.

“We have a guest,” Leon says, quickly shutting the door.

“Marian?”

Leon furrows his brow at him, but rather than give into snark as Merlin suspects he would like to, he restrains himself better than Arthur ever could, “Unfortunately, no.”

Before Merlin can even ask who it is, an unmistakable voice can be heard from between the cracks in the slats of the door. “Ah, yes...I've come to see everything is easier without the peskiness of people around to hinder my progress.”

Vaisey.

“You know what it is I seek,” he says. “Find it!” Bangs and clangs immediately follow his orders. The place is being ransacked. But for what?

“The window,” Leon whispers, nodding his head toward it. “Quickly.” As Merlin shifts away from the door, the floor creaks beneath them. A lump drops to the very pit of Merlin's stomach, and the two men freeze, looking at one another with wide eyes. There is a beat. Then...

“Upstairs!” They hear a voice shout.

“Go!” Leon says, drawing his sword and shoving Merlin towards the other side of the room. Merlin stumbles, but catches himself on the windowsill, throwing the shutters open, and slipping out onto the sloped roof. Back inside, he sees Leon shoving a chair against the door before running towards him, “I said _go_!”

Grabbing onto the edge of a crossbeam, Merlin swings himself down, dropping to the ground below. He immediately looks back up to the roof line, waiting for Sir Leon to follow. Nothing. A resounding crash sounds from within the room, and Merlin knows the barricade did not hold.

Leon's head appears over the side. “Make for the woods!” he shouts hastily, and then he is gone. Merlin loses sight of him as he ducks back into the house. Metal clashes.

“Leon!” He has to get back up there. Jumping, he manages to grab hold of the support beam, but not sooner does he grab it than he feels a sharp pain in the back of his calf, withdrawing a cry from him as he's pulled back to meet the hard earth below. He is only vaguely aware of the arrow sticking out of his leg when he rolls over to find a Nottingham guard pointing another at him.

Time slows. The soldier releases the bow string. “ _Dul am_ _á_ _ch_ ,” he breathes and the arrow, a mere breath away from his face, suddenly redirects and whizzes past him to lodge itself into the side of the house. He thrusts his hand out towards the baffled guard, “ _For_ _þ_ _fleoge_!” Knocking the man off his feet, his body flies back through the air, smashing against the trunk of a tree, and crumpling motionless at its base. Leaves rain down around him in a gentle shower.

The clash of metal continues to ring above him. Leon. Merlin must contort in order to reach down and around to his leg, bracing himself as he breaks off most of the arrow's shaft, leaving the head embedded in his flesh. It will have to do for now. He tosses the tail aside and scrambles to his feet, his injured leg initially buckling beneath his weight, but he grits his teeth and forces it to stand. Just as he is able to gain a proper footing, he stops. There is the scraping of blades against one another, followed by a sharp ring, a few thumps, then silence. A chill runs down Merlin's spine.

Although lacking the agility of the elderly weaver's fingers, Merlin manages to jump, grabbing hold of the low-hanging beam, and flails his legs as he swings himself back onto the roof as he had attempted earlier. He instinctively glances behind him, not wanting another arrow to find a home in a more fatal spot on his body. But no one pursues him. Without a sound, he scoots to the side of the window, sitting with his back against the wall.

“--will not be appreciative of such hostility.” It is Leon speaking. Merlin allows himself to breathe, finding much relief in hearing his friend's voice..

“Hmm, true, yes...” says Vaisey, his words dripping with arrogance. “Ah, but then again, I get the feeling he may not care this time.”

“Then you do not know my King.”

“Not as well as you do, I'm sure,” he says, “But I am quite familiar with dead men, and a dead man does not care about...well...anything.”

No. There is the sound of a struggle. Leon's loyalty paired with his fire getting the best of him, but it is quickly abated, and silence falls once more. Merlin decides to risk it; he shifts just enough to peer into the room. Vaisey stands in front of Leon, who has a guard on either side of him, twisting his arms painfully to keep him on his knees. Two other guards stand by the door. In Vaisey's filthy hands rests the nondescript box from Marian's cabinet – the one Merlin failed to lock back up once his curiosity had been satisfied. Merlin furrows his brow, but more important than the box is the expression on Vaisey's face. It may be smug, but it is not one of victory. No. Arthur is still alive.

“Ooh, tsk tsk, control that rage,” Vaisey says. “Your obsession is admirable, but...wait...oh, no...no, I take that back. Sorry, it's _pathetic_! Why you are all obsessed with him is beyond me. If you want someone to obsess over, I'm a far better catch.”

“You are wrong. He is the greatest king Camelot has ever known.”

“Hmm, 'known'...I like the past tense of that word,” Vaisey smiles, his entire scalp sliding backwards on his skull as the wrinkles in his forehead smooth with glee. “Fitting.”

Merlin cannot sit by any longer. If Arthur isn't already dead, he could be well on his way. The young warlock shifts as gingerly as possible, while still maintaining speed, to move along the roof line toward the front of the house. Below, three more guards stand watch, oblivious to the loss of their comrade, whose body lies just around the corner.

Think. Think. One wrong move and he will die. Or worse, Leon will die. Possibly worst of all, one wrong move and his secret will be out. The never ending consequences of that are too much to stomach. Merlin clenches his teeth with a grimace, his plight seemingly manifesting itself into a sharp pain that radiates out from the broken shaft of the arrow in his leg. He writhes a moment, gripping his knee and letting the severity pass before trying to formulate a pl--

“There!”

Merlin suddenly flattens himself against the wall of the house as an arrow flies past him. He scurries back along the roof line, and out of their sight, his heart sinking when he gets to Marian's window. The room is empty. Through her bedroom door, he can see the back of a guard's head as he descends down the stairs with the others. Merlin quickly grabs the joist and swings to the ground, landing in a lamenting heap as his body continues to wilt. His pulse beats so loudly against his eardrums, that he can barely hear all of Lord Vaisey's words as he shouts into the open air from the front of the house.

“Servant! – fools! – get him!” Another voice follows after it.

“Run, Merlin!” Leon shouts, his voice strained, but Merlin cannot leave his friend. He runs around the side of the house, ignoring the pain that explodes up his left leg with every step. “Get to Arthur!” Merlin skids to a stop at the last set of orders. The words resonating as his head throbs. His heart races. It pounds. His head spins like a roulette wheel, where each spoke harnesses a priority, but only one can be chosen in the end. Pain. Arthur. Leon. Duty. Arthur. Destiny. Pain. Destiny. Arthur...Arthur!

Merlin ducks as a guard slips around the corner and fires an arrow. Twisting on his heels, the young warlock sprints toward the cover of the trees as fast as his weakened legs will take him. Arrows rain around him. He hisses as one scrapes the outside of his shoulder. There are too many. His energy too little. His magic won't be of much use for long. Behind him, the cries of Sir Leon, the stalwart knight, rise into the sky. And the weight is unbearable now. Fate is taunting him. Destiny bends his branches near the breaking point. It is too much. All that is at stake. All the choices he must make. All the sacrifices he must allow...

 


	9. Chapter Nine

 

Locksley. A village that boasts nothing and lacks nothing. It is nearly self-sufficient with family businesses diversified enough to cover the every need of the people who live there, yet without excess. At least, that's the way it appears it would be if they were allowed to keep any of their product or profit from trade. But the sallow hue of the villagers' cheeks and the fragile frames that hold them erect tell Arthur that they have not had the privilege of enjoying their own harvest in quite some time.

“Naturally, all I could do was bop him on the head and be on my way,” Gwaine says, swaying with the gait of his horse as the four men make their way through the dirt paths toward the center of town, “Not the way I would have liked to leave things, but I don't think he understood my predicament as well as he could have. I had no other choice.” There is a beat of silence, and just when Arthur thinks Gwaine will finally slip into silence, he hears him draw another breath. “Still, I doubt I'll be welcomed back there anytime soon...even with the praise of his daughter on my side. And, to be honest, I'm not entirely sure whether her input helped or hindered her father's rage, but needless to say--”

Arthur, who has had the misfortune of riding directly beside the long-winded knight for the majority of the morning, rubs his forehead, which is clammy with perspiration. Of all the days to have to depend on the finicky timetable of an outlaw, it had to be on one of the hottest of the year. They arrived in Locksley early that morning, bent on keeping their word, and eager to see what it is Hood has to show them, but they have done nothing but wait. And walk. For hours.

Around them, men tend to their crops and livestock, women to the chicken coops and gardens, children – fetching tools and stoking the fires – aid their parents in their crafts, all too busy to notice the presence of these foreigners, but as the day progresses the whispers begin to circulate and eyes are increasingly cast towards the knights as they ride their horses down the same streets over and again, looking for any signs of the bandits.

“Is there nothing else we can do, sire?” Elyan asks from behind, not even bothering to wait until Gwaine has finished his story. “Something to show Hood that we're here?” The question did not have to be asked for Arthur to realize that his men are growing impatient. He is beginning to feel the tug of restlessness himself.

“He gave no instructions. Only to come,” says Arthur as they approach a small cluster of trees on the side of the town's main square. “I assume he will find us in his own time.” He slips his feet from their stirrups and drops to the dirt ground below, retreating beneath the protection of the shade.

“That shouldn't be too difficult for him,” Elyan says, flinging his bright red cloak out of the way as he follows Arthur's lead, dismounting from his horse.

“You wouldn't think so,” says Percival. “Then again, I once heard of a nobleman who couldn't even find the water bottle hanging from his own belt.” He smiles broadly in Gwaine's direction, joining Elyan and Arthur as he swings his leg free from over his horse.

Gwaine is the last to descend from his saddle, his sarcastic smile suggesting that he quite enjoys sitting aloft to gain height over his pestering friend, and rather begrudges having to once again be dwarfed by Percival by dropping to the ground beside him. The large knight claps Gwaine soundly on the back, and the three men, reins in hand, tether their horses to a nearby fence where their king's steed already settles in for a rest.

Arthur releases the clasp on his cape and flings it across his vacant saddle, “Percival, see if you can find some water for the horses. Gwaine,” he tosses him his waterskin, “go with him and refill these. The last thing we need is to lose one of you to sunstroke.”

Percival nods, “Yes, my lord.” He waits for Gwaine to collect Elyan's bottle before heading back out into the heat, which can be seen radiating off the ground in a dense haze, blurring the legs of the two knight's as they venture away.

Turning to Elyan, Arthur gives his shoulder a pat, “Rest while you can. Who knows what we will face when the merry men arrive.” He pulls his hands free from the thick, stifling material of his leather gloves with some difficultly, grimacing in disgust when the fresh air emphasizes just how wet they had become. Wiping his palms off on the leg of his pants, Arthur tucks his gloves away into his horse's saddle bag before surveying the huts around them.

He can't help but be reminded of Ealdor; there is a conservative calm over the residents here, but a clear dedication and passion for their trade that has not been inhibited by the trials they have suffered. Even as sweat drips down all their hard-working faces, the serenity they are able to maintain is evident on their every feature, in their every movement. It is the most relaxed Arthur has seen any of the citizens in this kingdom, but whether it is a result of unadulterated hope or an acceptance of their lot, he can't be sure. He half-expects Hunith's kind smile to emerge from one of the huts and greet them, invite them in; at the moment, his stomach growls so mightily, even memory of her less than crude cooking is enough to make his mouth water.

But the thought of sweet Hunith brings another image to mind, another person, and sends the king's sights back down the path they just trod, searching for any signs that his servant and Sir Leon might be rejoining them shortly, “What do you suppose is keeping Leon and Merlin?” he asks, looking down at Elyan, who has taken to lounging against the tree trunk. “They should have been here by now.”

“Could be any number of things, sire,” he replies, “The horses will need more tending in this weather, dampening their haste, or perhaps they lost their way--”

“Not with Leon there to navigate them.”

“ _Or_ ,” Elyan continues, “if they didn't find Marian in Knighton, they may have stopped into Nottingham again on their way here. I wouldn't worry. I'm sure all is well.”

Arthur nods, glancing around once more before retiring any more concern on the matter, and takes a seat beside Elyan, allowing the cool soil beneath him to ease his discomfort. He is thankful for the silence that falls around them. Elyan closes his eyes and rests his head back against the tree trunk, while Arthur does his best to relax, though he cannot keep himself from looking for Hood and his company. Many of the citizens walk about with their heads covered by their cloaks, taking care to shield themselves from burn, and, as a result, also shielding their identities from Arthur's discerning eyes. Even so, he spots no one of suspicion; no seemingly out of ordinary behavior, no wild blue eyes peeking out from beneath their hoods, no mammoth-sized men tromping around – aside from Percival, no bows, no petite Saracens, not even an irritating swagger can be detected among the townspeople.

It is then that he turns his attention to the trees surrounding the village; if they are not hiding within, then perhaps they are hiding without. That is assuming they plan to be here at all, which Arthur is not entirely convinced of. While he'd prefer to believe that Hood intends to keep his end up, that he has brought them here to demonstrate his merit, he is not naïve enough to believe that honor is among the code of thieves.

“Why does that not surprise me?” Elyan's voice breaks the peace. Arthur can't be sure how long they have been sitting in silence, but it has been long enough for the two knights to return from their quest for water.

Both Gwaine and Percival head their way, hauling two buckets of water each, though Gwaine's sloshes over the sides unlike Percival's – probably due to the fact that his attention is occupied more by the young lady walking with them than the preservation of the water. Arthur suspects the buckets belong to her, but her frame is boney and frail, certainly in no condition to be hauling something so heavy. In her hands, more fittingly, are two familiar water bottles.

“My lord, this is Lynne,” Percival says as he passes by with Gwaine to water the horses. “She has been a great help to us.”

The king and his knight get to their feet as she approaches. The closer she gets, the more clearly Arthur can see just how young she is, though her brittle appearance ages her prematurely, and there is no telling the last time she ate a proper meal. She shifts beneath his gaze and Arthur realizes he has been staring.

“Your Majesty...” She dips gently, bowing her head in his presence, “I never thought I would receive such an honor. I am pleased to meet you, and grateful I am able to be of service to you and your men. If there is anything else I might do for you...”

“Please, I assure you,” Arthur says, “Your kindness is enough.”

She smiles and gives Elyan his waterskin before handing Arthur his, “I could hardly believe it when I heard word of your presence here. Even when King Bayard ruled over our kingdom, we were not accustomed to royalty walking among us. Nor are we now. They live their lives and we live ours.”

“The fact that there is that distinction is a shame,” Arthur says, moving to reattach the water bottle to his saddle, “The lives of people, no matter who they are, ought to be lived together.”

“Is that why you allow commoners to become knights?” she asks abruptly. Arthur stops fidgeting to look at her.

“Nobleman or commoner, I simply knight any man that deserves it,” he shrugs, “There is no other agenda behind it.”

Lynne smiles, “My brother will be pleased to hear it.”

“He has his sights set on the sword, does he?” Gwaine asks, returning to her side.

“Oh yes,” she says, “He has been dreaming of it since the day he first saw the king and his men parade home from war. But with traditions still holding firm here, he has turned his eyes to Camelot.”

“Is that right?” Arthur cracks a smile, unable to keep the pride that swells over his men's reputation at bay, “Bring him out. I think we would all like to meet this brother of yours. Is he nearby?” He rests his hands on his hips, the curve in his lips slowly waning when he sees that the light has fled from her eyes, and she struggles to keep a smile on her face.

“He is, sire. Only...” she wets her chapped lips nervously, and plays with the ties of her apron that has been wrapped twice around her to accommodate her withering waistline, “I do not think he is fit to leave the house just yet.”

“No matter,” Arthur says, trying to keep his voice light, “If he is up for company, we would be more than happy to go to him.”

The gleam in her eyes returns, “Truly?” She looks between the four smiling knights. “Yes, yes, please. Right this way.” She hurries off across the main square, her new found joy apparent in the slight skip that now accompanies her step.

Arthur starts after her, then stops, retracting his strides, “Oh. Someone should stay with the horses.” He glances at the two knights that just toted the water then to Elyan, giving him a nod, “Would you do that?”

“Of course, my lord.”

Gwaine comes to backhand Elyan's chest playfully, speaking quietly to avoid being overheard by Lynne, “If you're good, maybe we'll bring you back some food, eh?”

“We are _not_ eating their food,” Arthur says, aiming his stern gaze directly at Gwaine.

“But if she offers...” the knight smiles pleadingly, but unfortunately it is an expression that only works to sway members particularly of the female species.

“They need every bit they can get,” he says, then adds when his friend's face falls, “Don't worry. We'll find something somewhere else.” With that, he departs from the protection of the shade, squinting his eyes against the piercing blaze of the sun's unfiltered rays.

Their hut sits directly across the clearing from where the knights had tethered their horses. From there, Arthur can see Elyan adjusting the water buckets to keep them from knocking over, though the horses nudge at the knight's face, eager to move back in for another drink.

Arthur stops just outside her door. Glancing around the square, he sees no signs of mischief that might rise to cause a problem for the lone Elyan, but all the same, he gives their surroundings one more sweep to be certain. When he is satisfied, he finally follows Lynne inside.

“Jacob,” Lynne calls out as she heads towards the back of the one room home where a curtain has been strung up to serve as a partition, “you have some visitors.”

“Visitors?” His voice is confused and young, younger than Arthur expected, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, though it is difficult to tell. As an only child, never gifted with the presence of little brothers or sisters, he never trusts himself when it comes to making such judgment calls.

Lynne slips through the break in the curtain and out of sight to continue talking to Jacob. Out of courtesy, the three men linger behind, taking in the humble home, and trying not to eavesdrop on the sibling's conversation, even if they can very clearly hear that Jacob is startled by the idea of guests, and nervous that they have come bearing bad news.

Despite the fact that most of the pieces of furniture and belongings seem to hold little value, and could be replaced quite easily, the king finds himself extremely conscious not to touch anything for fear of breaking it and leaving them with less than they already have. He does smile, however, when he sees a vase of vibrant yellow flowers sitting at the center of the dining table that is chipped and splintering in several places. Guinevere always had flowers in her house. Several vases of them it seems, but she always preferred the purple ones Arthur can't remember the name of. At least that's what he assumed she preferred, but now that he thinks about it, perhaps she always had purple flowers in her house because that was the color he would always pick from the castle's courtyard on his way to see her. Looking at the bouquet, he wonders briefly if Lynne likes the color yellow or if she might have a young admirer of her own, eager to impress.

“Here,” Lynn says, poking her head out from behind the curtain and waving them over. Percival and Gwaine wait for Arthur to go first before following after him. Her face is beaming as she turns her attention back to her brother, “Jacob, I would like you to meet King Arthur and two of his knights.”

The boy, lying atop a cot with several pillows propping him up, stares at them with eyes that grow twice their normal size. Arthur smiles in greeting, though it is an expression he must force upon himself. The sight of Jacob is heartbreaking. He is very small for a boy that old. Arthur would be content to think that he simply got his age wrong were it not for the maturity in his face that proved his estimation right. His limbs are thin, covered in bruises and open sores, which are tucked tightly against his abdomen. When he talks, Arthur can see that several teeth are missing, and the ones that remain have begun to turn black.

“You...came to meet _me_?” he asks.

“We did,” Arthur says. “Your sister says you wish to be a knight of Camelot one day.”

“Not just of Camelot,” the boy corrects, “of the Round Table.”

Gwaine smiles, “Ah, an even more impressive ambition.”

“Are you two Knights of the Round Table?”

“That we are,” says Percival.

“And let me tell you,” Gwaine stoops down by Jacob's bedside, “you will find no better table to sit at in all of Albion.”

“What do I have to do?”

“For starters, you have to give your loyalty to this man, right here,” Gwaine says, grabbing Arthur's arm and giving it a shake. “Aside from that and skillfully wielding a blade, you don't have to _do_ anything. You just have to _be_ honorable and brave.”

Jacob's eyes flit between the three men, “I can do and be all of that. I know I can!”

“There was never any doubt,” says Arthur.

“Let's get you on your feet first though, hmm?” Lynne says gently, but Jacob does not allow her to diminish his excitement. He keeps his eyes on the two knights huddled around his bed, asking them all about their swords and capes, if the Round Table is actually round, and of their many adventures they have had with their king.

Arthur takes the boy's momentary distraction as an opportunity; he turns away from the bed and pulls Lynne aside a few steps, keeping his voice low, “What does he suffer from?”

She shakes her head, “I can't be sure, sire. We have no means to visit the physician. But...some days he does better, begins to look healthier. As soon as our supplies grow scarce, though, he worsens.”

“Supplies?”

“Food,” she clarifies. “We try to ration it out, so we always have some, but earlier this week, Sir Gisbourne found our reserve and accused us of hoarding. He took everything.”

Arthur takes a moment, breathing deep and rubbing the back of his head as he thinks; he is one man and there are more and more people that are proving to be in dire need. “It's not much,” he says, motioning a thumb over his shoulder, “but I have a few coins stored away in my saddl--”

“No, your majesty. I did not bring you here as a ploy to gain your charity. I only wished to see the smile you and your men would bring my brother.” She glances over at Jacob, who is gracing Gwaine with a captive audience for once as the knight tells of a dangerous quest complete with grand hand gestures. His story is interrupted, however, when the breeze brings through the window a round of commotion that is filled with pure elation.

It is refreshing to be distracted by the sounds of happiness, but Arthur furrows his brow as his curiosity takes hold. Outside, people laugh and cheer. The ruckus is so dense, he can only make out bits and pieces of what they are saying, “Look! – Praise the Lord! – He's come! – There, quickly!”

A hasty knock sounds at the front door, but before Lynne can even reach the partition, they hear the door open followed by Elyan's voice, “Sire, I think you'll want to see this!”

Arthur quickly pushes the curtain aside, stopping in his tracks when he sees Elyan holding a large, abundant gift basket full of food. A feminine gasp comes from behind him and Lynne joins him at his side.

Elyan raises the basket slightly, “I found this on your doorstep.” He is barely able to set it on the tabletop before Lynne jumps to it, rifling through the many treasures held within.

“Is it Robin Hood!?” Jacob yells from the back. “Did he come!?”

“He came!” Lynne shouts before crumpling into a fit of laughter and tears, propping herself up on the edge of the table with one hand, covering her delighted smile with the other to suppress the sounds of her sobs.

“Sire,” urges Elyan again before making for the door. Arthur, with the other two knights in tow, hurry after him. As he passes her, Arthur gives Lynne's shoulder a gentle touch and steals a fleeting look into the contents of the basket she received. Bread, fruits, vegetables, entire cuts of pork and beef, bags of rice and flour...Jacob is sure to be looking better in no time.

The merriment over the handout is amplified tenfold after stepping outside. Those that used to mosey amidst the drudgery of their day now run with an unparalleled excitement, murmurs turn to trills of joy, and the faces that once looked so strained and worn have life again. Families gather on every door step, some taking in the generosity more slowly, while others snatch the baskets up and disappear back within the privacy of their homes in seconds. The majority of the children, however, are running about the square, squealing with laughter, and trying to collect the bits of food raining down from the sky, delivered via the arrow shafts stuck through them.

“Ah...now that's just showing off,” Gwaine says light-heartedly, watching as an arrow holding a chunk of bread embeds itself in the post of Lynne's neighbor's porch.

Arthur, arms folded across his chest, shakes his head, smiling despite the strangling his pride is receiving from seeing the generosity of the bandits in action. There is no admonishment to give a man responsible for such a righteous act, unfortunately there is only recognition and praise.

“Arthur!” Percival shouts, grabbing his king's shoulders and jerking him backwards. Arthur stumbles back as another arrow whizzes by, sticking into the wall of Lynne's house, its shaft trembling from the force of the blow. The large knight helps Arthur regain his footing.

“Death by cheese,” Gwaine says, plucking the arrow from the siding with a forceful tug. “Not the worst way to go.” He breaks off a piece and eats it before offering the arrow and the cheese left on it to Arthur, who waves it off. He is too busy searching for where it came from. For Hood.

On the other side of the square, not far from their horses, stands an old, rundown barn. In the window of its loft, he can just barely make out a figure peering out from behind the shutters. Soon enough, another arrow flies toward them, causing all four knights to duck as it lodges into the door behind them. Bread this time.

“I get the feeling he has a pressing need to talk to you,” Gwaine says, flicking the hair from his face as he stands tall again, squinting towards the loft window, which has gone empty.

Arthur crosses the square, taking care to dodge the swarming children and various (now empty) arrow shafts jutting out from the ground. He lifts the latch on the large barn door and pushes it open just enough to have a look inside. Empty. It is one large room, filled with nothing but several stacks of hay around the perimeter. He can't be sure where the other outlaws are, but he knows Hood is here. Turning back to the knights, he can barely make out their faces against the light of the day.

“Wait here.”

“Arthur, are you certain it's wise to face him alone?” Elyan asks.

“Vulnerability is a mark of trust, Elyan. He needs to see that I am making an effort.”

“You trust him, sire?” Percival asks, the skepticism he shares with his friend not well hid.

“I...trust my dueling skills over his.” He cocks a jesting eyebrow and backhands Percival's chest before slipping through the cracked door and pushing it shut behind him. Still no sign of anyone. “Hood?” An empty basket drops to the ground from the loft above, probably once full of the bandit's edible ammunition. “Hood,” Arthur says again, walking in further. “I hope it is excellent aim rather than poor aim that kept your arrow from embedding itself into my skull.” He stops at the basket, nudging it lightly with the toe of his boot.

Just as he looks up toward the edge of the loft above him, a mass of green jumps down, striking Arthur furiously across the face. The weight of Hood crashes into him and knocks him off his feet. There is no time to process anything. Hood instantly straddles him, throwing his fist wildly at him once again, but his raging emotions make him sloppy. Arthur deflects the blow and returns it before bucking the bandit off of him and kicking him square in the gut as he comes at him a second time, giving Arthur just enough of a reprieve to scramble off the ground. But rather than attack again, Hood paces away from him, shaking out his combative arm. He veers in a circle to clear his head and gather his thoughts. A tic Arthur remembers him having even when they were young.

Hissing, Arthur gently touches his bleeding lip before he kicks the basket roughly across the barn. “What the hell was that, Hood!? You bring me here under the pretense of a truce only to--”

“Do not preach to me of pretense!” the bandit shouts before his voice shifts, suddenly calming, though the anger still rages in his eyes, “If we are to talk of pretenses, Wart, let's talk about yours.”

Arthur shakes his head, “What are you talking about?”

“Marian!” Hood shouts again, but Arthur can summon no response. Transgressions of Arthur's past still stew in the heart of the outlaw, he knows, and yet he cannot bring himself to believe that's what this is all about. There's more. A wry smile skews the side of Hood's mouth, and he lets out a snort, approaching Arthur slowly, “This is how it's to be, is it? You're going to play coy? By all means, boast. You deserve to. I warned her against it, but you managed to win over her trust.” His face grows rigid with fury the more he speaks, and by the end he can do little more than seethe through his clenched teeth, “Carry that victory back to the top of your bloody _pedestal_ with _pride_.” He spits, derisively flipping the loose end of the chainmail coif draping across Arthur's chest, and before the king can stop himself, he snatches the front of Hood's shirt, jerking him forward, though it takes all of the king's self control not to retaliate any further and lay the outlaw back flat.

Arthur gives himself a moment to ensure his personal restraint before speaking, “I have brought Marian no ill-fortune,” he says carefully. “Nor do I intend to.”

“A pomp _and_ a liar...”

He shoves the outlaw away from him as he releases him. “If you are accusing me, at least do me the courtesy of announcing my crimes,” the king snaps, his voice rising again with irritation, “If I am guilty I will claim them, otherwise I trust you will believe me when I discount them. I am not interested in playing games, nor do I think you wish to embarrass yourself further by assuming your approval means enough to me that I would waste my energy in denying any charges that are true.”

Hood casts his arms out to his sides, challenging, “Marian was arrested last night! And her father this morning.” The words create an ache within the very heart of Arthur's chest, sinking to the depths of his stomach and where it begins churning painfully. It can't be true. They were so careful. He was with her last night. He was there when Sir Guy came to take her to see the king. If that was not his true intent, if he was aware of her guilt and all she and Arthur had planned together then, and arrested her for it, why not arrest him as well? “What do you have to say for yourself, Wart?”

“I...I didn't know,” says Arthur, his voice distant at first then growing in urgency. “How did you come by this information?”

“One of my men was in Nottingham early this morning,” Hood says. “He caught wind of it.”

“You should have told me as soon as you found out. I've been looking for her all morning. I could have done something about it! Instead she's there and I'm here. With you. While two of my men continue to search needlessly for her.” Arthur jabs a finger in his direction, “You had no right to keep this from me!”

“I had every right!” Robin shouts back. “This is _your_ fault!”

Arthur stops. He straightens his back as he raises his eyebrows, doing his best to keep the offense that burns in his cheeks at bay, “You think I did this? Did you hear nothing I just said!? Listen to me, Hood...I would not turn her in. I _did not_ turn her in.”

“You didn't do anything to stop it though, did you?” Robin snaps.

“I didn't stand by and _watch_ her get arrested!”

“No...you would never do that,” the sarcasm dribbles from the bandit's mouth to deliver a low blow that nearly chokes Arthur's air supply. The king fixes his eyes on a random point on the floor, speaking slowly and deliberately.

“That was different, and you know it,” he says. “That was--”

“Ah, here come the excuses,” says Robin, both men trying to speak over the other.

“--my father's, my _king's_ , edict!”

“She needed you and you hung her out to dry!”

“There was nothing I could do!” Arthur shouts over the outlaw. When he is once again the only one speaking, he lowers his voice back down. “It can, and it will, be different this time...” He reaches out to grab the bandit's arm before he can turn away from him, but it is wrenched violently from his grasp. Arthur raises his hands to show he means no harm, “I'm on her side. I _will_ get her back.”

The scrutinizing glare of his old friend presses in upon him, searching for lies, for deceit, for any reason to doubt him; their stare never feeling more foreign than they do at this very moment. Arthur knows much has changed between them, possibly irreconcilable, but he misses the cheer that Robin used to bring wherever he went, his stalwart defenses that never allowed the brutality of life to bring him down and would ease the load of others, bring them out of themselves to enjoy life's moments. Now, it seems, the murky ponds of blue held within the outlaw's eyes have frozen over.

“Do you understand me?” Arthur asks when he receives no reply.

“I understand you...I just don't trust you,” Robin says, folding his arms across his chest, “Matters of politics always manage to trump relationships for you Pendragons.”

He can't deny that. Not completely. Not when that very notion is the reason his family had been drawn in different directions until it shattered beyond repair. “Not anymore.”

A chorus of creaking wood bursts in echoes throughout the barn, causing the two men to lurch from their stances with such a fright that they cannot even bring themselves to meet one another's gaze again. Much is the first to appear through the rickety door in the back corner of the barn.

“Master! Gisbourne and his men!” he exclaims in a voice filled with an intensity of worry Arthur can appreciate as it sounds so familiar. Filing into the room behind Hood's loyal servant is none other than the rest of the merry men.

“They're just down the road,” Will says hastily as he walks towards them, adjusting the grip on his ax. Rather than preparing to wield it, however, he slides his hand closer to the blade and slips the shaft into his belt to holster it. “Robin, if we want to get out of here, we need to go now.” He glances over, connecting his gaze briefly with Arthur's before returning his focus to the outlaw, who sways with unhinged emotions; one arm folded across his chest, he runs a hand down his face. Arthur is sure he looks very much the same, and he can feel the eyes in the room shifting between the two of them. Full of questions.

“Robin, what is going on?” Djaq's exotic timbre finally asks.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just talking.”

“Yeah, talking always makes me bleed too,” Allan says from the back of the barn. Arthur instantly wets his fat lip, hoping to wash some of the blood away, while Hood adjusts his stance so that Will cannot see the dried clot lingering along his left cheekbone.

But their attentions are diverted before anymore questions can be asked on it. The barn's front door groans, and the distant rumble of dozens of hooves flooding in with the stream of light.

“Arthur, I think you should--” Gwaine suddenly stops, presumably taking in the sight of his king battered and in the presence of six outlaws. The fierceness radiating through the knight can be heard in his powerful strides as he approaches. “Is there a problem here, gentlemen?” he asks, his gruff voice now also housing a certain growl. He stops at Arthur's shoulder, his eyes focused on Hood.

“Everything's fine, Gwaine,” Arthur assures him. “What is it you came to tell me?”

Gwaine glares at Robin a moment longer before pivoting to motion towards the door, “There's a band of Nottingham soldiers entering town.”

“Ah, that, my friend, is old news,” Allan chuckles, glancing around at several disapproving looks, “What? I thought knights were supposed to be sharper than that.”

“Do you know why they're here?” Gwaine follows up, showing impressive restraint against a comment that would usually set him off. The thief says nothing.

“One word of our distribution gets out,” says Robin, “And they usually come running.”

The sound of stampeding horses grows louder from beyond the barn walls.

“There's no time for talk now,” Arthur says. “Hood take your men and go out the back. If you stay low, and follow the gorge--”

“We know how to go unseen,” he says sharply, but then clears his throat. He glances around the room before looking to Arthur again with a scratch on the back of his head, “But, um...what about you? What will you do?”

Arthur shakes his head as he thinks then gives a shrug, “Improvise.”

* * *

The Locksley village square is full. Around the outskirts are throngs of villagers huddled together, their faces ashen and yet their curiosity too much to ignore, so they stand silently, hoping to go unnoticed as the steward carries out his business. He and Sir Guy sit at the front of a large mass of men clad in black. They surround a fortified carriage. The harshness of their dark attire sucks the beauty from the day around them and covers the town in a gloom that cannot be escaped.

Elyan and Percival look over their shoulder to the emerging Arthur and Gwaine, an extra layer of perspiration coating their temples that has not been brought on by the heat.

“Ah, if it isn't the man of the hour!” Lord Vaisey smiles. He extends a hand to present Arthur to the crowds that stand with watchful eyes.

The king slides between the knights to draw closer to their unexpected visitor, “Lord steward, to what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” The chink of chainmail rings from behind Arthur as his three loyal men follow close, their protective presence welcome as the air shifts around them.

Vaisey checks his surroundings, and Arthur can't be sure he even heard his greeting, “Where is Hood? Given the array of feasts taking place around me, I assume he must be here somewhere.”

“He was,” says Arthur, “but as you are well aware, he has a knack for slipping through the cracks when the need arises. We were, unfortunately, unable to detain him.” He touches his bloodied lip as supporting evidence.

“Hmm. Is that so?” the steward studies him a brief moment, “Well no matter! I had hoped to kill two birds with one stone, but a solitary target does make things easier, does it not? Go on, Gisbourne. Tweet, tweet. Just the one then.” With a sharp motion of his hand, Sir Guy directs his men forward. They pivot in unison, a mass of identical army ants shining in their black armor, and march steadily along the outside of the square towards the men of Camelot. Arthur draws his sword, a move that triggers the same action from his knights.

“What is this!?” Arthur says, eying the steward's men as they move in united formation to form a barrier around them, cutting off any possible escape back through the barn. Elyan, Percival, and Gwaine turn their respective ways, the four men bumping shoulders with one another to leave no back unprotected.

“Oh, silly me,” Vaisey chuckles. “I thought you'd have caught on already. Um...dear this is awkward now, isn't it? You, Arthur Pendragon, as it happens...are under arrest.” He smiles.

“For what crime!?”

“Put down your weapons!” Sir Guy bellows over him. “We don't want this to get messy.” The smirk that dances on his lips is so alive, it brings a spark of life to the man's usually vacant glare. He is enjoying this.

“Don't we?” The steward asks, his golden tooth glimmering. But none of them disarm themselves. Nor do they lower their blades the slightest inch.

“I demand to know what wrongs I have done!” Arthur calls out. He peers to the side, taking inventory of the Nottingham guards that tighten their ring, hemming them in without escape. They leave only one side unguarded, and there Vaisey and Gisbourne watch from the front row with the rest of their men. But they will not see the men of Camelot squirm. No. Arthur readies his grip. There is not a reply the steward can give that would change what he knows will need to be done.

“Ooh, tut tut,” says the steward, “Just cooperate. Let's not do anything fool--”

Arthur pivots on his heels, thrusting his sword between Elyan and Gwaine to pierce the soldier closest to him. He kicks the man back to free his blade. Like a pebble being thrown into glass, the solitary action causes the world around him to erupt in a flurry of chaos. The soldiers charge and begin to fall one by one as Camelot takes up arms. Their king spins to backhand an oncoming opponent, slicing open his gut and shoving him into another soldier charging his way. He ducks to avoid the wrath of a swinging spear, plunging his blade into the man who wields it. He jerks it back out, but not soon enough. A mace strikes him hard in the side and a blast of agony radiates up the side of his body, like the piercing fingers of lightning stretch out from a sudden clap of thunder. As he stumbles to regain his footing, he pushes off the body of an unknown man behind him and slices the back of a man whose blade is currently locked against Gwaine's and gaining distance towards him. Gwaine uses the man's painful distraction to send him sprawling backwards with a hardy blow to the face. Arthur spins out of the way and swings to strike another soldier high. Blocked. Arthur kicks him away and turns, his eyes searching for his next opponent.

He stops.

Elyan.

Between the fighting bodies, lying face down in the dirt, Arthur can see the entire side of Elyan's face is coated in blood, blinding his right eye. He claws at the ground, his hand grasping desperately in front of him for the hilt of his sword, but it is out of his reach. His face contorts as a Nottingham guard steps onto his back, pinning Elyan down with the sheer weight of his body mass, and poises his blade above the Camelot knight, ready to plunge it down into his flesh at any second. It will be a mortal blow. Arthur knows it.

Men begin to close in around the king but there is a narrow, clear path leading from his spot among the rabble to where Elyan writhes beneath the guard's boot.

“Elyan!” Arthur shouts. He grits his teeth when another opponent is upon him before he can act, but quickly elbows him in the face to give himself room. With a single sweep of his sword, he hinges at the waist, lashing out to cut down any guards that stand within his blade's reach. And for a solitary second, he is unhindered, the path remains clear, and Arthur lunges, swinging his sword overhead and letting it fly from his fingertips. It sails between the battling bodies, nicking bits of fabric, but ultimately piercing the man in the side beneath his upheld arm. He crumples to the ground beside Elyan. The grateful knight tries to scurry to his feet.

Unarmed, Arthur has only his bare hands to rely on when a soldier grabs him from behind, the black leather clad arm snakes around his neck, but the king drives it back before it can cut off his air with a swing of his elbow. Another soldier grabs the belligerent arm, rendering it invaluable to his defenses. There are too many. Struggling against the two men, Arthur hopes to catch the attention of one of his knights, but their eyes are already on him.

Elyan is on the ground again, or perhaps he never got up. He is on his back with the knee of a guard digging into his gut while several swords are pointed at his neck. His good eye is wide with panic when he sees the predicament of his king, but there is nothing he can do.

“Arthur!” Gwaine's voice chokes at the end of calling his king's name. He thrashes against the hold of his three captors, his heels digging into the dirt to give him leverage, but his head is yanked back by a fistful of his hair, withdrawing a cry and exposing his neck to which one of the guards presses a blade against it. He goes silent.

Closest to him, Percival backhands one guard and delivers a crippling stomp kick to another. But his sword is nowhere to be seen. He does not even make it one step towards his king before a guard smashes the back of his leg with a club, causing his knee to buckle, and without the advantage of his height, they swarm him. With the work of three men keeping him on his knees and his arms wrenched behind him, as well as a fourth pointing a sword at his face, he too is defeated.

Arthur continues to struggle. He will not give in. Through the pounding of his own pulse in his ears, Arthur can hear the derisive clapping of Vaisey, whose enjoyment over watching some of his own men fall floods Arthur's face with such an intense heat his vision begins to waver. He clenches his teeth at the sight of Sir Guy strutting through the mass of men towards him, and uses all his strength in an attempt to free his limbs, his fist aching for one good blow to that smug coward's face.

The man in black towers over Arthur, his voice a low rumble, “Lift one more finger against us and they all die.” His cold eyes stare at the defeated king a moment longer. “You don't know how long I have wanted to do this.” He backhands him across the face so severely the ambiance of Locksley is replaced by a biting ring that clouds Arthur's thoughts and blackens his eyesight. Sir Guy grabs him by the hair and throws him forward, free of the guards, to land in a disoriented heap before Lord Vaisey, the townsfolk, and the battered soldiers from either side.

He keeps his head bowed and squeezes his eyes shut, giving himself time to suppress all that plagues his body and threatens to show weakness on his face; the dull ache in his side that encroaches in on his lung to make every breath painfully known, the tremble in his limbs, the unknown fate of his men, the sting pulsing against his cheek where the clasps of Gisbourne's gauntlet dug into his flesh, and now freely drips of Camelot pride into the dirt near his hands. He takes a deep breath, attempting to center himself, but with every clap of Vaisey's filthy hands it is as if he is being struck upside the head.

“What a spectacle!” the steward gushes, and Arthur lifts his head to face him. “Anyone can see the lionized Knights of Camelot in all their glory, yes, impressive, sure...but! Not everyone gets the joy, nay, the _honor_ , of seeing them succumb to a brutal, pathetic, all out failure. Mmmm, yes. Yes. Today is a good day, indeed.”

“You say you have come to arrest me,” Arthur says, forcing his voice to come out strong despite his lack of air. “Then I ask that you, at the very least, allow my men to go free. They do not deserve to shoulder my offenses whatever you claim them to be.”

“My dear boy...” he says, his words dripping with mock sorrow. “You do not know what it means to rule a kingdom, do you? As king, by default, you subject your men to the outcomes of your words and your actions. They are an extension of yourself that cannot be removed. Your victories are their victories, and your treachery is their treachery.”

Arthur shakes his head, “What have I done to you?”

“Oh, come now, let's not act like boys in the schoolyard. You Pendragons are so dramatic, no, this is not personal.” He stops, pausing to think. “Not at the start anyway, no, your crimes are a matter of state. An attack against this kingdom and against us all.” Vaisey motions to the people gathered around the clearing, who look at one another with an uncertainty that Arthur cannot be sure sways for or against their support of Camelot. But amidst the crowd, he spots her. Lynne. Watching from just outside her door, she supports Jacob as he leans against her to stand upright with little strength of his own. And all Arthur can think is that he should have told them. He wants to tell them now, and for them to know, why he is here, who he fights for. Because it is _them_. Despite his initial plans, the slander of the steward, or any rumors that circulate, he is here for them. For them all.

“This man!” Lord Vaisey begins, addressing the crowd and causing Arthur's eyes to snap back up to him, “when tried at sun up tomorrow, shall be found guilty and sentenced to death for his sinister crimes against the crown that include bureaucratic misrepresentation, coercion, and sedition that, when combined, lead to a failed attempt on the life of our very own King Leofrick!”

A breeze washes over the crowds, lifting the soft murmurs from their lips and spreading them to fill the air of the square. The incessant, yet indistinguishable, chatter assaults Arthur's ears, and he can only dread the things they are beginning to say. They may have heard of him, yes, but they do not know him. Not like his own people do. And while his father worried little about it, he has come to learn that there is little more powerful against an enemy's onslaught than the unwavering credibility one keeps with their supporters. A loss of faith creates a loss of so much more. Vaisey knows this.

“That is a lie...” Arthur says, keeping his stony gaze on the ground in front of him. He dare not see the looks of the people and Lord Vaisey is no desirable sight to behold either.

“Hmm? What's that?” the steward says. “No need to be shy, boy, speak up.”

“I said,” Arthur begins more loudly as he shoves himself up to his feet, “That's a lie!” The shuffling of feet behind him tells him that several guards have taken to ensuring he makes no sudden moves, though as one unarmed man vastly outnumbered, he is flattered they would take the precaution.

“Yes, we've heard that defense before, I'm afraid,” Vaisey says with a lazy drawl. He glances around at the onlookers, then opens his mouth to speak, but Arthur doesn't let him.

“If you would toss away such an important chance at peace with Camelot, disregard the opportunity to solidify a treaty that would be of great benefit to your people,” Arthur says, gesturing to the very people the steward currently surveys, “all over this accusation, then there must be substantial proof against me. What is it?”

Vaisey suddenly looks up at the sky, thoughtful, as if trying to determine whether it would be a good day for a picnic or not, “You were once friends with Lady Marian, were you not?” His voice is casual, light, strangely bordering on the likeness of pleasant. “Set to be married, I believe.”

It takes several beats for Arthur to register the man's words, the shift in topic so sudden it nearly passes him by before he can grasp it. But when Arthur finds his voice, there is hesitancy in it, weary of confirming anything that the steward may be getting at, “Yes...that's right.”

“Clearly papa Pendragon didn't like what she had to bring to the Camelot royal line, did he? He called it off before you were too old.” He doesn't wait for Arthur to validate his claims before continuing, “Relationships...they can either serve as an asset or detriment to the things we are striving to achieve. And when you realize they are a detriment...well...it's best to sever ties and move on to a better prospect, isn't it? You had no use for her, so it is no wonder you two did not speak again until just this week. Tell me, did you ever call upon the likes of Lady Vivian or Princess Elena again? They certainly fell for your charms, as many women do, but it seems they were not deemed valuable enough assets to Camelot either. Of course, once you were crowned king, you made some very strategic moves. A blacksmith's daughter?” Arthur's entire body goes rigid, his pulse beating in his ears once again. “Yes, I'm sure intending to marry a commoner granted you quite a boost in popularity among your people, but alas, you could not seriously marry a peasant. You dodged that trap so proficiently while still gaining the benefit you desired too. No one would dare hate a man for calling off a wedding on account of adultery. Strategic, indeed.”

“Guinevere was _not_ a strategy!” Arthur shouts before he can stop himself. He knows he should not allow this bout of nonsense to get to him, that the steward's monologue is nothing but a game, but getting himself riled up over...her...would do him no good in his attempts to win this match.

“And I hear you are currently in correspondence with another young maiden,” Vaisey continues as though Arthur never spoke a word. His voice remains pacified and nonchalant.

“What has this to do with the charges against--”

“Princess Mithian of Nemeth, I believe? Your two kingdoms have been fighting over land for centuries. I have no doubt your charms will put that dispute to rest.” He stares at Arthur a long moment before breaking into a smile, “I do hope word of your rekindled exploits with the Lady Marian will not hinder your scheme to collect that ancient land for Camelot.”

“You speak with ignorance on matters that have nothing to do with what is at hand,” says Arthur as he tries to keep his voice level, though his teeth grind and his chest rises and falls more earnestly.

“Now my question is,” Lord Vaisey goes on, “why strike up a friendship with Lady Marian again? Why now? You have not seen one another for...” he scrunches up his face, studying Arthur as he tries to decide on a number, “ten...twelve years? She still has nothing to bring with her to the throne. She is a haggard old maid that does nothing all day but attend the future king of Mercia, following him everywhere he goes and wiping his little – oh!” Vaisey's eyebrows spring up on his forehead, his eyes widening with a realization that has clearly been thought about prior to this moment, and Arthur deflates. He knows what comes next and already begins shaking his head. Vaisey points at Arthur, his voice lowering to a poisonous depth and a sneer emerges, “Heavens...you are a clever boy, aren't you? Why...if I ever wanted to assassinate a royal child, I would never think to get to his side through the heart of a caretaker.”

“That's not--”

“Isn't it!?” the steward shouts, all of the veins in his head suddenly springing to the surface of his flesh. “The moment you arrived, you took a special interest in Lady Marian and King Leofrick. Rumors flew about the amount of time you three were spending together!”

“Any efforts I put into being with them was not of a malicious nature,” Arthur says, though he knows there is little power in his words here. “I would never hurt him!”

“No, never! You would never do such a thing! He is a fellow _royal_ with the blood of kings flowing through his veins and deserving of respect. He is just a _child_ , which no man that does not carry a heart cold with the brutality of pure evil could even think to harm. And yet!” He lifts a finger, scanning his audience to ensure their attentiveness before leveling his baneful gaze back on his prey. “You...have the blood of royals on your hands. You, Arthur Pendragon, have the blood of _children_ on your hands! Do you deny it!?”

Acid rises from the king's stomach, burning his throat, which threatens to close in on itself as the faces of those he has slain rush to the forefront of his memory. He pushes out his response, but it is hardly above a whisper, “No...” The murmurs of the crowd grows. “But that was long ago! I was young, I made mistakes...”

“Ooh, now now, show a bit more responsibility, your majesty. Let's not cast our sins off on the immaturity of our past.”

“It's the truth,” Arthur says, “I was--”

“How old were you when you slaughtered King Caerleon for refusing to sign your treaty?” The steward's brow furrows with sorrow at the silence that follows his question. There is no excuse for that incident and they both know it. “Yes...I thought as much. I should have known you were a dangerous one to enter into talks with. I should not have given you hope when there was hesitancy in my heart. The unrelenting, unforgiving inferno of rage that Uther has passed down to you often goes unseen, shrouded by your amiable nature and slick tongue, but it combusts for all to see at the first sign things are not going your way. Things, clearly, were not going your way here. I only regret that my poor judge of potential allies has lead to a near fatal attempt on young King Leofrick's innocent life.” He allows the sentiment of his display to linger in the air, undoubtedly hoping that its deceit will embed itself comfortably in the minds of the villagers. Arthur can only hope they are smarter than to allow that to happen. “Gisbourne!” The steward calls out, “Arrest this spineless wretch...” Sounds of shuffling feet and pained grunts can be heard coming from behind as the knights struggle to protect their king.

“With pleasure, my lord.” Sir Guy glowers as he approaches. Arthur knocks Gisbourne's hand away as he reaches for him, but he manages to wrestle an arm behind Arthur's back regardless, hissing in his ear, “It's true what they say...oh, how the mighty fall...”

“Oi! Gisbourne!”

That voice. The crowd beams, fluttering with a sudden commotion of excitement as they point toward the sky somewhere behind Arthur. He and Sir Guy pivot, squinting as they look up to see Robin perched outside the loft window, bow readied in hand.

“I'm rather jealous!” He calls down to them with an unmistakable smirk, “And here I thought you came for me!”

“Hood!” Vaisey shouts angrily as he scrambles from his saddle, ducking behind some of the idle guards, and poking his head out, “Gisbourne!” Sir Guy quickly hooks his free arm around Arthur's neck and jerks him around to use as a human shield against the bandit. Once protected, he begins to survey his surrounding men for the best course of action.

“Fighting thieves is one thing!” Robin shouts. “Fighting knights is another! Now imagine what misery you would face if you ever came across a band of knights _and_ thieves!”

Arthur throws his head back, his skull crashing into Gisbourne's face and freeing him of his hold. He ducks, and above him Gisbourne lets out a mighty roar as Robin's arrow embeds itself into his shoulder. But it is not the only arrow that rains down. All at once, the sky breaks open.

Drawing the sword from Sir Guy's own belt, Arthur spins to lash out at a guard coming to the man in black's aid. He pushes him aside and makes for the closest knight: Elyan. An arrow strikes the chest of the guard kneeling atop him, knocking him off with a sudden lurch. Elyan grabs the fallen soldier's sword and springs to his feet as Arthur locks blades with the second man. Arthur shoves his sword against his opponent's then twirls his free. He ducks to dodge a swing. Stands. Blocks. Dodges. He tucks and rolls past his opponent, rising to one knee, slashing the guard's back, and shoving his dead weight into another oncoming soldier. Beside him is the man he slain previously, Arthur's personal sword still penetrating the corpse's torso. He draws it out, now wielding two blades and turns with high hopes that his two other friends still live to draw breath.

The square is thick with noise; clashing metal, raging men, and screaming villagers. Everything dances around Arthur in a blurred squall as men are in front of him at every turn. He quickly crosses his blades, catching an overhead swing in the crook of their shafts, and deftly twists them to fling the man's sword free from his grasp. Disarmed, the man stares at Arthur in horror before he suddenly heaves forward. Arthur stumbles back and the man lands face down at his feet with an arrow jutting from his spine. He is not in the habit of killing an unarmed man. Scanning the perimeter, he cannot see which outlaw made the shot before he must raise his defenses. He deflects the heavy blow of an axe, kneeing the man in the gut, who doubles over so he can drive the hilt of his sword into the back of his head. Shoving him out of the way, Arthur tries desperately to gain sight of Gwaine and Percival.

It is not long before Percival towers into sight. No doubt with the help of a few friendly arrows, the giant knight breaks free, only sporting a single scrape along his cheek, and rising from the swarm of Nottingham guards like a dragon taking flight from the cover of the forest. Still unarmed, however, he relies on his brute strength once again; throwing a fist here, delivering a kick there. He grabs the equipped hand of a guard, bending his arm back until he is at the knight's mercy. Percival backhands a second guard, who threatens to get in his way, before driving his elbow down into the back of the first soldier, whose sword is kindly relieved of his grasp as he collapses to the ground. Percival adjusts his grip on the hilt, taking a second to observe his new weapon before suddenly spinning to drive the butt of it into an attacker's face.

Arthur calls out to him when he sees that Percival is unaware of a Nottingham guard coming up behind him, axe raised and ready to strike. The king swiftly spins his blade free and cuts his current opponent down, shoving others out of the way as he tries to get to him, but he knows he will not get there in time. He calls out again, “Percival!”

Just as the head of the axe begins to fall, a wide-eyed ginger in a tan bandana leaps in front of the guard with a mighty cry, sword blazing as he strikes the handle of the axe and redirects it to embed itself in another Nottingham soldier. Arthur skids to a stop, and Percival whirls around just in time to witness Much slaying his attacker with a single stroke of his sword. The two Camelot knights raise their eyebrows as they look down at the bandit.

“You saved my life,” Percival says dumbly.

“All of your lives actually,” Much says with a cool sniff, “But who's counting?” He glances between them, then double-takes at Arthur, deciding to add as his composed demeanor quickly deteriorates, “Y-your Majesty.” He smiles with a nod.

Arthur swings one of his blades, nearly shaving off the tip of Much's nose as he raises his sword to stymie an attack from behind the bandit, and thrusts his second blade past Much's torso and into that of the guard. A now very pale Much gathers himself quickly and swings at another soldier. Arthur blocks an attack. Percival throws one man into another. All three turn back to one another in unison.

“I am indebted to you for defending the life of my knight,” Arthur says, punching Much's shoulder in thanks, having few other options since his hands remain full. He immediately looks to Percival. “Check on Elyan, I need to find Gwaine.” The king parts from the two, blocking blades and kicking away opponents as he makes his way towards where he last saw Gwaine. In the shuffle, it is no longer purely a mass of black armor studded by the silver sheen of the knights, but now entered into the mix are specks of green and brown. Arthur can't be sure when the bandits descended from their perches, but it seems to have been at an opportune time.

His eyes shift to the ground up ahead as he spots a sleeve of familiar chainmail through the pairs of legs that fill the Locksley square. Gwaine. He shoves his way through the guards, taking little time to tend to any of them, only eager to get to his fallen knight. He slashes left, kicks right, swiftly, one motion after another, carving a way through the crowd. Something jerks back on the hood of his own chainmail, and he stumbles back into a pair of burly arms just as a large mace swings down and dents the ground where he was standing only a second ago.

“Your haste will get you killed!” The giant bandit bellows as he shoves Arthur out of the way. He uses his rod to knock the guard off his feet and jam the end into his gut. Arthur covers the giant's back, blocking the swing of a blade and pivoting to drive his shoulder into the soldier. He spins out of the way to avoid another blow only to come face to face with Gisbourne – the arrow shaft still stuck in his chest, and lines of fury marking his brow.

Arthur lunges, but Guy counter cuts, slashing Arthur's arm with a knife. It penetrates the mail. A sharp pain floods up the king's arm. He loses the grip on Gisbourne's pilfered sword. It clanks to the ground. Kicking him in his weakened side, Guy sends Arthur stumbling for balance, giving him just enough time to recover what's his.

“Give in,” Guy says. “We are too many and you are too few. Even with Hood and his worthless gang, you will be slaughtered like the dogs you are!” He flings the knife at the king, but Arthur deflects it with his sword. They stand off. The tips of their blades zeroed in on one another.

Arthur knows if he waits long enough...Gisbourne makes the first move, his face contorting as he swings high, but Arthur blocks and casts it aside, swiping furiously at the man in black, who dodges the cut. Guy swings once. Blocked. Twice. Blocked, but this time he swivels their blades, opening Arthur up, and before the king can do anything about it, Guy tightens a fist and delivers a hard blow to the face. Arthur stumbles, but swings. Gisbourne ducks and Arthur kicks him, withdrawing a dull grunt, which transforms into a war cry as Guy charges at him. Arthur is attacked with a swing from the right. Blocked. From above. Deflected. One right after the other. Right. Left. Right. Left. It becomes predictable, and Arthur dodges and blocks them with little effort as long as he keeps moving. Right. Left. Right. Soon he begins to anticipate Sir Guy's every moves, and he is certain he has him. Left. Right. Left. Right. Their swords clash, filling the air around them with rhythmic rings. Right. Left. Right. Left. Left! The sudden shift in his offensive tactic withdraws a moment of panic from Arthur as he has less than a second to avoid the strike. Rather than attempt to block, he lunges down and out of the blades path. But his form lacks his usual confident agility. Gisbourne sweeps his foot under Arthur and sends him sprawling to the ground.

The dry dirt kicks up into Arthur's face, assaulting his eyes and throat. He coughs, his labored breaths choked by the loose soil, and he loses his grip on his sword. Grasping desperately for it, he reclaims it and rolls over just in time to block a powerful downward stroke. Gisbourne twists their blades, slicing Arthur's bare hand, and flinging the hilt free from the king's hold.

Sir Guy cocks a crooked grin as he levels the tip of his sword to Arthur's face, “Gotchya...”

* * *

The leaves crunch beneath his feet as Merlin flees through the rolling woods. His gait is not steady, nor is it strong. With every step, the arrow shaft shoots thousands of pins into his calf and threatens to render his leg as useless as a dead king. But Leon will not be left in vain. No. Though there were many times Merlin considered going back for him, he knows that he has made his choice. It is too late to do anything else. That much was made clear when he heard the rumble of stampeding horses riding through the path below. Merlin had peered over the edge of the ridge just in time to see Vaisey's bald head riding alongside Sir Guy. What had become of Leon?

If the steward had sent him to his death before riding for Locksley, where Merlin suspects the same fate awaits his friends, then he cannot let mortal pain hinder the chance his destiny has given him. He must press on. The minutes have passed and the Nottingham assemblage will be far ahead of him – towards a destination he is not even certain he knows the way to. It is useless to think about, despite the fact that it is a notion that continually creeps into his mind. He _will_ press on.

Just when Merlin has given into the fact that there may be no end to his running, his tiring feet catch the top of a root and send him soaring through the air. He lands in the brush of the forest floor and the agony dwelling within his body escapes in the form of a low, lingering groan. Suddenly clamping his mouth shut and stifling the whine of his pain, Merlin's eyes widen.

Clanking.

Clashing.

Merlin rolls over when he hears the familiar sounds of battle. He tries to scramble to his feet, but the arrow has taken its toll, and it sends him back into a heap on the ground. Using his two hands and his good leg, Merlin shuffles forward as quickly as he can, past several more trees, around a bush, and stops when he reaches the forest's edge. It gives way to tall grass, where nothing but sky can be seen beyond it. He crawls further into the grass on his belly, and reaches his arms out to part the green stalks that impede his view.

Down below, Merlin can see only chaos. Several villagers around the outskirts are screaming as they try to wrangle their children, dozens of soldiers in black armor concentrate their fighting efforts on a single area in front of an old barn. Percival! He fights as zealously as always, accompanied by...one of Hood's men? Scanning the crowd, Merlin begins to pick out more and more familiar faces: Much, Will, Elyan, Allan, Djaq, John, Robin – all fighting together. A strange enough sight to behold in and of itself, but there are more pressing matters at hand. Arthur. Where is Arthur?

Merlin darts his gaze from man to man, looking for his king, looking for that mop of blonde hair, that flourish of his sword, that confident posture, anything.

And then he sees it.

While every ally is occupied, caught in their own battles, a small band of guards wrangle something – someone – toward a carriage waiting at the rear of the Nottingham horses. They are lead by Sir Guy with a strut so powerful, it has to be Arthur that they drag along between them.

“Arthur!” Merlin springs forward, willing his legs to hold him up, but he is returned to the ground beneath him with a bitter cry. His vision swims as a pulse rages up from his leg and through his veins like fire hungry for fuel. He has pressed his luck and now his wound will have its vengeance. The heat burns in his stomach until his entire chest heaves once, twice. He throws his head to the side and retches up the contents of his stomach before falling limp under the cover of the grass.

Three breaths. That is all he gets. One. Two. Three. After the third deep breath, Merlin uses the strength left in his arms to drag him closer to the edge. His eyes immediately snap to where Arthur was, but has since been moved. The band of soldiers hauling him has all but disappeared behind the carriage where they seem to be struggling with their captive. Every now and then a guard shifts and the sun catches on Arthur's armor. But then the doors to the carriage fling open, and all Merlin can still see of his king are his feet as he digs his heels into the ground. Fight Arthur. Fight. It won't be long now.

Merlin closes his eyes and stretches out his hand.

He takes a deep breath.

“ _Bæl on bryne_...” he whispers. He doesn't feel it. Opening his eyes, nothing has changed. Almost nothing. Except now Merlin can see the blonde hair he was looking for. Arthur lies in a crumpled mass on the ground just outside of the carriage. He is not moving, but Sir Guy stands by, pointing sternly toward the carriage, his face red as he shouts at his men.

“ _Bæl on bryne,_ ” Merlin says more urgently, keeping his eyes open this time. With a stifled whimper, his body shutters, convulsing twice before deflating. Nothing happens. It only drains him. He tries to keep his arm stretched out towards Arthur, but he is no longer able to hold it up off the ground. It is too heavy. His eyes flutter and threaten to close for good.

Through the slits in his eyes, he barely sees through the grass, he barely sees Arthur's blonde head anymore. Then it disappears. Gisbourne shoves his way forward, reaching down with one arm to yank Arthur to his feet.

Merlin lets his eyes close. He then squeezes them tightly shut, drawing in one long, deep breath. “ _Bæl on bryne!_ ” He shouts. His body seizes once as the power suddenly rushes in, a warmth coming over his entire being before it gathers in the confines of his right shoulder with such an intense heat, Merlin has to grit his teeth to keep from yelling out. It then shoots through his arm and out the palm of his outstretched hand.

His body falls limp.

It leaves him cold.

Darkness follows.

 


	10. Chapter Ten

 

 

The air is empty. It is no longer filled with the clatter and grind of swords in motion or the cries being heaved out with a dying breath. Consciousness comes and goes, and all Merlin can grasp is the cool breeze rolling across his cheek, sending the fallen leaves around him tumbling over end with a muted rustle. Don't let this be a dream. Don't let the battle continue to rage on outside the tranquil burrow the young warlock's mind has slipped into. There is nothing he can do for his king here. Or anyone for that matter. His friends. All fighting for their lives. Leonis gone. How many others must he fail today?

There is no memory of the silence falling. One moment he is tearing through the woods, letting the branches strike his face and forcing his leg to behave unwounded, intent on reaching Arthur's side. The next he feels the prickle of grass as it serves as a natural pillow beneath his head. His palm still pulsing with heat like a waning ember. Then. His body is being moved. Lifted. But never put back down. The open air sweeps across his face and neck, cooling and soothing the inflamed wound on his leg as it wraps it in its arms. Is he flying? No. Their are voices. He groans with every exhalation in hopes that he will wake, that someone will talk to him, that he will hear them.

Merlin is on his stomach. Someone murmurs to him. What are they saying? His name, but something more. A face floats in front of him. Before he can make it out, a weight presses down on his calf and with a sudden burst it feels as though the very fibers of his leg muscle are being wrenched from within the safe housing of his skin. He wants to scream, and maybe he actually does, but he cannot hear anything. He cannot see anything. Nothing but the piercing blaze of light that starts off as a pin prick in the back of his mind before it explodes and rages forward to consume him...

 

“ _Merlin_...”

It is spoken as if in a dream, whispered, yet so deafening it wakes Merlin with a violent jolt. His eyes snap open, and he shoots up in bed, glancing about quickly as he tries to gather his bearings. The air is hollow around him, dank, and the only light is the golden glow of twilight that seeps in from somewhere around the bend up ahead; it reflects off the uneven surface of the walls and ceiling around him. Stretching out his hand, Merlin touches the nearest wall. It is cold and wet. Solid rock. A cave, but clearly more than that. There are boxes and trunks scattered about the cavern, chairs here and there with a few cots lining the walls; the beds appear to be occupied, a distinct lump rests on each one, but the tenants remain unidentifiable, cloaked in shadow. They rise and fall with deeps breaths, the rattle of a snore breaking through from time to time. Surely someone meaning to do him harm would not leave him unbound while they slept the night away.

But where he is and who has brought him here are the least of his concerns. Last he can recall, the outlaws had taken up arms to fight alongside his friends, the Nottingham soldiers were multiplying in numbers, and there was nothing he could do to help them. A sigh falls from Merlin's lips as he rubs his forehead. He reaches down to touch his bandaged leg stretched out in front of him, and he can remember the pain; it still pulses with anger, but remains dormant like a beast in hibernation. Perhaps it had saved him; performed an act of mercy in taking his consciousness, so that he might not have to witness the slaughter of his friends. His king. Bile starts to rise in his throat. He swallows it back down as he starts to gingerly shift his leg over the side of his cot, taking care not to awaken its fury. He needs answers and he needs to find them now. But he stops. Something catches his eye.

A suit of abandoned armor rests near a clothes trunk, parts of which are still proving to be reflective, undeterred by the layer of filth that coats it. Arthur's. He would know his armor anywhere. It is not Gwaine's, not Elyan's, nor anyone else's, no, it is most certainly Arthur's. Every nick, every latch, Merlin knows it all. Dried dirt and blood accompanies an array of new dents and scratches that diminishes it of its usual pristine shape. But after spending day after day of the past few years polishing that thing to perfection, the sight of its empty shell no longer withdraws resentment for its inevitable need to be polished once again; now, every time it sits discarded after battle, awaiting his attention, he feels only gratitude. Because it means his king lives to fight another day.

“Do you always wake up this spry?”

Whipping his head around, Merlin is startled to find Arthur lying on an identical cot beside him, an amused, albeit sleepy, expression on his face.It unnerves Merlin to think that his friend remained so still and silent that he was able to remain undetected at only an arm's length away. It is easy to see that he lacks his usual color and that dark circles hang beneath his eyes, but it doesn't stop a quirky grin from curving the side of his mouth.

“Arthur...” Merlin mirrors his king's smile, taking in the sight of him – alive.

“Honestly,” he continues from where he slumps against a pile of ratty pillows, motioning to Merlin's leg, “You were unconscious not five minutes ago, then you suddenly spring up like a startled toad. I can't get up that fast even on my best day.”

“Yeah, well, I'm motivated. And you're...lazy,” Merlin says, a bit distracted as he begins surveying the pair of bandagesthat are tightly secured around Arthur's upper arm and right hand. A bit of blood has begun to seep through the bandage around his palm, and if he had to guess, Merlin would say his king is not treating it as carefully as he should. “And wounded.” He shifts to sit on the edge of his own cot, facing Arthur, but before he can lean in for a closer look, Arthur presses his swathed hand against the young warlock's shoulder to stop him.

“Flesh wounds, Merlin, nothing more,” he says, though there is tightness in his voice and a fleeting grimace that crosses his face as a result of the movement. “Trust me, I got lucky.”

“I know you did. I saw it.” Merlin says, glancing towards the mouth of the cave, where whispered voices float in from somewhere beyond the threshold, and hopes that is the sound of his other friends. “The battle,” he continues, “They had you and I thought...I was sure you'd be...”

Arthur stares at him a moment, “You saw?” His voice is suddenly much stronger, “How much do you remember? Did you see where it came from? Who it was?”

“See where what came from?” Merlin frowns. “What are you talking about?” He watches as Arthur sits up to mirror him, grimacing as he holds his side.

“The fire,” Arthur says urgently, his curiosity overriding the pain etched across his face.

Taking a hold of Arthur's arm, Merlin tries to steady him, “You should be lying down, sire...”

“It's the reason we're still here,” he continues. “Alive. I don't even know what it was or where it came from, but...” His brow slowly knits together as he tries to put into words something he doesn't seem to fully understand, his eyes grow vacant, trying to make sense of it, “Gisbourne had me at his mercy...”

 

_Arthur's already aching ribs crashed against the floor as he was thrown into the bed of the carriage, his hands bound in front of him._

_“Behold, the catch of the day, gentlemen...” Sir Guy said, his arrogant smirk tiring as he fought the effects of the arrow protruding from his shoulder. He flipped a dagger into the air, deftly catching the hilt, “Now let's not waste--”_

_His words were swept away by a swell of shouts. A rush of wind. Terror in Guy's eyes. And then it hit. The entire carriage jolted, flinging the only cargo – the king of Camelot – ruthlessly against the side. The doors flapped on their hinges, offering only brief glimpses into the chaos that erupted outside; Sir Guy was sprawled out on the ground yards away, others discarded aside with him, soldiers were running, the wind was still howling, closing in around Arthur an overwhelming heat dove deep into his lungs. The wood slats of the wagon crackled and popped._

_More screams. More shouts._

_The panicked whinnies of the horses pulling the wagon pierced through the drone of battle before the floor beneath Arthur suddenly lurched forward. With nothing to hold onto, he tumbled head over heels through the unlatched doors of the carriage, landing unceremoniously amidst the trampled dirt of the square._

_Around him, a dense blanket of black fog began to spread; it billowed out from the ravenous flames consuming the carriage as it veered around the square behind the spooked horses, and scattered the men of black, green, and silver in every direction._

_Sight was limited. Breathing scarce. And only the growing rumble of the ground beneath Arthur's body warned him of the dangers quickly approaching. He rolled out of the way just in time to avoid being crushed by stampeding hooves, but in the process bumped into an animal even more wild._

_Vaisey._

_On all fours, the steward was still cowering, yet was now without the cover of the cavalry he once used to shield himself from all harm. They looked at one another. Faces inches apart and eyes rampant with the adrenaline that could not compose itself enough to choose between fighting and fleeing. They waited. Only momentarily, but long enough to calculate their next course of action._

_Lord Vaisey's hand flew to his dagger, but before he could free it from its sheath, Arthur – hands still bound – rammed his armored shoulder against the steward, the edge of his pauldron driving into the squat man's face. His consequential agony, proven by a pathetic cry, gave Arthur just enough time to jump to his feet._

_The carriage, no longer recognizable in its flaming shroud, continued to careen around the square, stirring up pockets of flustered horses which then darted out, threatening to trample anyone in their path. Chaos. This was their chance._

_The knights, unrelenting in their ferocity, didn't show any signs of debility as they continued to fight, to protect, to strive for their lives and the lives of one another. Though blood trickled down their faces and limbs, they allowed it to roll off like summer rain. They wouldn't give in. They would never give in. Not until the fury of their blades went cold in their stiff grips._

_A hand clamped tightly around the king's ankle. He pivoted, kicking from Vaisey's grip the dagger he knew was waiting for him, and wasted no time, pendulating his foot, and swinging the heel of his boot back into Vaisey's jaw._

_“Go!” He heard Robin shout over the clamor, “Get them to the woods!”_

_Arthur turned to see that the thieves have gotten themselves organized, as though they have done this a hundred times. No doubt they have. Each one, or a pair of them, found their way to one of his knights. They defend them, giving them time to run, but for a moment, the knights only linger, looking in Arthur's direction for his orders._

_“Arthur!” Robin scrambles through the smoke to the king's side, “If ever there was a time to trust me...” he flipped an arrow out of his quiver, grabbed Arthur's bonds and sliced through the rope with the head, “...now would be the time. We have to move. Now!” He tugged on Arthur's arm._

_“Run!” Arthur finally shouted to the knights. It would be easier to take down a handful of outlaws if needed, than a horde of Nottingham soldiers. He took off running toward the border of the square, sure to stay alert to his surroundings; horses still stampeded, men still hunted, and somewhere, someone had started that fire. And whomever it was, was still out there..._

 

Merlin looks down at his hands as a lump forms in his throat. It had worked. Where he thought he failed, he very much succeeded. He could cry. He could smile. He could even laugh. But any of those things would make Arthur think he had gone completely mad. So he gives himself a moment by clearing his throat, “Have you, um...have you asked Hood and his men about it, sire?” Merlin lifts his eyes to meet Arthur's again, forcing his gaze to remain steadfast, though the pain of lying to his face never manages to falter. “Isn't it possible they shot a flaming arrow into the side of the wagon?”

“The fire didn't spread slowly,” Arthur insists. “The entire thing was engulfed in flames from the very moment of impact. It was...it was almost like...it _had_ to be...”

“You may not want to be reminded of this, sire,” Merlin says, his hands becoming clammy, “but magic is not outlawed here. Any one of those villagers could have been trying to save you.”

“Save me...” he nods as he thinks, then rubs his forehead with a humorless laugh, “...or kill me. Why did I not think of it before? How many sorcerers have fled Camelot to preserve their lives? Any number of them could be here, and any number of them could wish to extract their revenge.”

Naturally. Merlin leans his elbow forward to rest it on his knee, and reaches down to massage his leg. It doesn't particularly ache at the moment, but there is little to be done for what is truly hurting him. He has to change the subject. “Where are we?”

“The last place I thought we'd ever end up.”

Merlin frowns. “I've been to the outlaws' camp before, and...” He double-checks his surroundings before looking to Arthur, “This isn't it.”

“Ah see, you've been to their _main_ camp, but when you're running from the law, Merlin, you need options,” he says, the mockery in his tone fading as quickly as it came. “Apparently there are too many of us to be safely concealed at their base, so they brought us here to the caves to recover.”

Merlin surveys the beds around them, spotting the oversized physique of Percival resting on one, but unable to identify the other knights for certain. He struggles to form his next question, afraid of the answer, “Everyone...everyone made it?”

The blond warrior nods, adjusting his bandage as he flexes his fingers, “Everyone but Leon...” He lets the silence settle between them a few moments before his eyes meet Merlin's again. They are not accusatory, nor are they angry. They droop with a concern that Merlin recognizes. It is the same look he gives every disheartened citizen that comes into the throne room of Camelot seeking help over a grievous ordeal.The trauma of what they experienced digs into their flesh, and Arthur must carefully pull each thorn out if he is to help them. He rarely fails. “What happened, Merlin?” The king's voice is soft, gentle. He is perceptive. Noticing without confirmation that Merlin, too, has thorns from the day.

“I...” he shrugs, “I thought it was going to be a good day.” It certainly did not turn out to be, but as he continues to relay all that happened in Knighton to the enrapt king, he starts to think that, while it was not all that he anticipated it to be, it could have been worse. That perhaps all that had gone wrong might have come to pass so that a fate more horrid than what is would not take its place.

Merlin takes his turn as storyteller, going through it all; telling of the arrival to Knighton, Marian's home found empty and in disarray, the weary onlookers, of Vaisey's raid, and of Leon's sacrifice. The only thing he failed to mention was the box housing the singing bangles, and how they are now – for better or worse – in the possession of the steward.

By the time he is done, the beast within his leg begins to throb, so Merlin utilizes the silence that follows his tale to prop it up on the bed beside Arthur, bridging the gap between them and instantly finding a bit of relief. Arthur says nothing in response. He only glances down at Merlin's bandage, it too starting to bleed through the cloth with a bold crimson stain.

“Aren't you going to say anything?” Merlin asks, the lack of feedback beginning to draw at his nerves, but the easy chatter that once filled Arthur is clearly gone. His eyes are vacant, yet swimming with a million different thoughts. “Call me a coward or--”

Merlin hopes a joke, whether his heart is in it or not, will bring back his king's spirits, but Arthur only shakes his head, “There is nothing cowardly about what you did, Merlin. You were...” he nods, hesitating as if it is a struggle to get the words out, and the young warlock knows a compliment is on its way, “...you were quite brave today, if I am to be honest.”

“Really?” Merlin asks, raising his eyebrows.

Arthur grimaces, “Don't push it. Ideally, I would have liked it if you could have stood on your own two feet so I didn't have to haul your limp carcass all the way across Sherwood Forest.”

“Let's just be glad it wasn't the other way around,” he says. “I mean, if I had to haul your _fat_ carcass all the way acr—”

“Merlin...” The familiar scolding tone of his king brings a grin to Merlin's tired face, but it lasts only briefly, faltering as something he has been pondering rises to the surface. “What is it?”

Merlin lowers his voice, “It's just...Robin. You haven't been exactly eager to work with him, and yet here we are. Our lives resting in his hands. What's changed?”

The two sit in silence. Merlin watches as Arthur fidgets with his bandages, mulling over an answer he may or may not know. Just as he lifts his head to answer, a long shadow falls from the mouth of the cave, bringing with it the smell of freshly simmering stew.

“Ah, you're awake,” Much grins. “Who's hungry?”

Rigid, but immediate, Gwaine rises from his pillow as if waking from the dead rather than from a much needed nap, getting up without a word and walking out of the cave, following his nose. Arthur watches him with a cocked eyebrow before smiling at Merlin.

“Shall we?” he says. He pushes himself to stand, grimacing again, but for a different reason than before, and lets out a pained exhale. He reaches down to help Merlin up, but as the young warlock rises from his cot, the blood immediately drains from his face. His vision sways at first, but when he feels Arthur's grip tightening on him, he realizes that it is his entire body that has become unstable, not just his sight. “You haven't eaten all day, have you?” Arthur asks, but Merlin can only shake his head. “Right then. Stay off that leg or Djaq will kill me for getting you up in the first place.” He situates Merlin's arm across his shoulders, and wraps his own around Merlin's waist to support him before starting toward the mouth of the cave. Gaius never would have allowed him to move so soon into his recovery, but Merlin can't bring himself to correct Arthur. This sort of well-intentioned doting doesn't come along very often. It is something to be savored.

* * *

In the center of the hovel inhabited by the High Priestess, the three, less-than-pleased, collaborators, stand silently. For a while, there is little room to talk; the air has been filled with the anger pulsating off each one of them.

The steward bristles with venom, his fist pressed firmly against his mouth as his wild, blood shot eyes bore into Sir Guy. The man in black, however, simply stands in boredom, eyes vacant, lids drooping, cradling his wounded shoulder where the shaft of the arrow still extends out, and waits for the steward's inevitable tantrum to unfold. He can see Morgana in his periphery, swaying impatiently.

“Well?” She says. “Victory needs no explanation, but you, my dear steward, have much to clarify. Where is my brother?”

“Not here.” He is a statue, his glare unmoving, his lips barely parting to speak from behind his hand. “And why is that, Gisbourne?”

“He got away, my lady,” Sir Guy lifts his eyes from where he had been staring at his blood-stained boots to look at Morgana.

“How is that possible!?”

“Yes,” Vaisey says, dropping his hand to his side, “How _is_ that possible, Gisbourne?” The steward has taken to the frequent use of his name, something Guy has learned to tread carefully around. “Did they know we were coming?”

“I don't believe so, my lord,” says Sir Guy.

“And...how many of them would you say there were?”

“Four to start,” Guy says, his gaze fixed idly on the floor again. It shifts slightly when he notices a scuff of dirt on the toes of Vaisey's boots, as well as patches of the dirt at his knees. The result of his position cowering behind the horses, he'd imagine. “Ten once Hood showed up.”

“Mm-hm mm-hm, now...tell her lady how many men _we_ had, Gisbourne.”

Sir Guy flits his eyes between them, unable to help the feeling that he is being trapped between two vipers, though which will strike out first is impossible to say. “About --”

“She deserves the _precise_ number!” the steward nearly spits out, but quickly clears his throat to recollect his calm, his voice cloying, “wouldn't you say?”

Clenching his jaw, Guy gives way to a brief silence as he tries to ward off the humiliation Vaisey is trying so diligently to thrust upon him, “Fifty-seven, including you and I.”

“Fifty-seven. Yes. So. Answer me this,” he takes a few rigid steps to close the space between them, resting a violently shaking hand on Sir Guy's shoulder, “should they have been able to find victory so easily over us?”

The man in black raises his eyebrows indignantly, “ _Easily_? My lord--”

“Ooh tut tut, now is not a time for excuses.” He dusts off Sir Guy's shoulder, “Now is a time for honesty. Should they have been able to slip through our fingers? Come closer...I'll give you a clue: _NO_!” The steward's face swells red before bursting out in a storm.

He snatches the arrow, ripping it from Sir Guy's flesh, and withdrawing a cry from him as the dam is released and the blood runs free. Guy tries to cover the wound with his hand, but it does no good, quickly staining crimson as his life oozes from between his fingers. His face goes cold and his legs wobble. “The answer is _no_! You failed me, Gisbourne!” the steward says. “They were there! They were both! Right! _There_!” He begins slapping Guy with the tail of the arrow repeatedly.

“My lord, please!” Guy says, trying to shield himself with one arm, but it does little good, “The fire! There was nothing I could do!”

“Nothing is all you can ever do, Gisbourne! You are a botched up excuse for a man, and I grow weary of your insufferable, infallible ability to ruin every chance we have at success! You sorry twa--”

He can't be sure where the strength comes from, but though Guy's limbs turn ice cold and a layer of equally chilled sweat begins to form on his brow, he lashes out, snatching the arrow away from his master and points its bloodied tip into his face, “I did all I could! But if you hadn't been so set on making a spectacle of him, I could have rid us of them all _long_ before now!” He chucks the arrow aside, lowering his voice, “But my success is limited when I must heed _your_ orders.” Sir Guy tries to maintain his resolve as he glowers down at the abashed little man in front of him, but his legs have lost their strength and he sways between their support, never finding a firm stance.

Lord Vaisey raises his brow so high, it would be lost in his hairline if he had one. He glances to Morgana and back, a sickening smile twisting onto his lips, “Why Gisbourne...I do believe you just grew a backbone right before our very eyes. I've never been more proud.” His smile soon gives way as he feigns a pout, inspecting the unrelenting flow seeping out from Guy's shoulder, “Ooh, but...perhaps it is merely death talking. It often has a way of summoning the strength we've been too scared to display while thriving with life. Pity you only showed your true potential now at the end of all things.”

“Not all is lost,” Morgana says, contemplation dripping from her lips as she steps in closer to shrink their circle. Guy straightens his posture, forcing himself to stand tall in front of her. Her image teeters before him, and he blinks hard, hoping to keep her still. She looks between them, her eyes bright, no longer burning with anger, but with a renewed hunger for triumph. “We forget...we have something Arthur wants. And as soon as he finds out, hewon't be able to resist. He will come to save them, to play the hero...and when he does it will unfold better than we ever imagined.”

“How so?” Vaisey asks.

“He...will come to us,” Guys says, trying to offer what insight he can, though struggling to retain his very consciousness.

She grins at him before shifting her focus to the steward. “You have accused Arthur of attempted murder on the king in front of an entire village,” she says. “And now, as Sir Guy has pointed out, _he_ will be coming to _us_. No more hunting. No more chasing. He will deliver himself into our hands, and when he does, we will have reason to kill two kings with one stone.”

“And walk away blameless...yes...” Vaisey mutters as he ponders that for a moment, his eyes widening with glee, “Yes! Right. How very right you are...advantageous indeed--”

Try as he might, Sir Guy can no longer hold his own weight. His legs give way and he drops to his knees, doubling over as the full effects of his wound take over him. He can feel Morgana's grasp on his arm as she tries to soften his fall, but he is too heavy for her efforts to be of any use.

Vaisey sighs, “Yes, of course, I forgive you, Gisbourne. There is no need to grovel.”

“My lord, he is in need of a physician,” she says as she kneels beside him and cups one side of his face to lift his head up towards her. He cannot see her. His eyes have fallen shut, and refuse to reopen, but he can feel her. Her hand is warm against his clammy skin, something that he did not expect from a woman whose reputation consists of her savage heart and ruthless temper.

“He needs a great many things, my dear, none of which I fear, would help his sorry state.”

“Do not pretend you have devoted servants to spare,” she snips. Even with most of his senses waning, Sir Guy can feel the air around her beating against him as her fervor rises. “Nor should you make the mistake of assuming they are easily replaced. I have seen the faces of the people as they look upon you, and they would rather die than stand at your side.”

“A problem we share, it seems,” Vaisey says before he takes his time to add, “Though I'm afraid he'll be dead long before we can get him help. Best not to fuss over what can't be helped. Unless...”

“Unless what?”

“I am quite certain a High Priestess of your infamous prowess must have many facets to her abilities. Perhaps you would do us the honor of serving as his physician...demonstrate your unparalleled powers...”

“I am not a carnival act, nor will I perform as one--” Morgana's word is cut short as she struggles to catch Sir Guy, whose body gives way to slump against her with dead weight, unable to hold his torso erect any longer. He knew it was coming, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. Their voices sound distant, but they are still discernible.

“La-dee-da-dee-da...” the steward drawls, “an innocent man lies dying in your arms. Is now the time for such pride? Come, come...just one itsy-bitsy spell, hmm? Let's see it.”

Guy can feel it as she tries to situate him more comfortably, easing him onto his back, and resting his head into her lap, “I...” she begins, but her voice has weakened, much like it does when she speaks of Emrys stalking her footsteps, “I am not fluent in healing incantations.”

There are several footsteps, the rustle of cloth, and suddenly Lord Vaisey's voice is much nearer. “Ah, the curse of life, is it not?” he says softly, “Too many to kill off and too few to care for. Well then...consider Gisbourne's fate a gift, my lady. A chance to learn. They call you a monster, but I know better. I see who you really are. And now is your chance to unleash the abilities of _that_ woman.”

Guy doesn't know how much longer he has. The silence begins to sink in around him and even Morgana's touch begins to slip from around him.

Then, from somewhere, he hears her again. Whether it is from her mouth or from within his own mind, he hears her, chanting, “ _Þurhhæle dolgbenn_...” Two forces begin to pull at him; one drawing him towards the clarity of consciousness, the other, full of agony, draws him towards darkness. As he swims in uncertainty, her voice remains, “ _Ic ðe ðurhhæle ðinu licsar mid ðam sundorcræft ðære ealdan æ. Drycræft ðurhhæle ðina wunda ond ðe geedstaðolie..._ ”

* * *

The fireside is mostly quiet as the knights and thieves all try to finish up their meals while also nurturing their various traumas. No one was left unscathed. Merlin is surprised they even have the energy to lift a spoon to their lips after such a battle, but their resolve remainsstauncheven if their bodies don't mimic the sentiment.

They slump over their dinners, Elyan struggling to even see his with an eye swollen shut and a bandage seemingly keeping his brow intact. Beside him, Percival is unfazed by his own plights, though he keeps one of his lengthy legs stretched out in front of him, a poultice wrapped tightly to the side of his knee; he cringes whenever he has to shift it, so he stays mostly still. Gwaine, on the other, is not so deft in hiding his suffering. His face is pale and drawn. His chatter has gone mostly dormant, but whenever he moves just right, a spout of curses fly from his mouth. Then he returns to silence, fuming like a child sent to the corner of the room.

The knights were not the only ones to suffer at the hands of Sir Guy and his men; Hood and his men, too, sport injuries of their own. None as prolific as that of the men of Camelot, but they move gingerly and wince periodically nonetheless. They are rather impressive hosts, something Merlin was not expecting, but is certainly pleased to see. John lumbers around the fire, handing out water bottles that he must have refilled for his guests, while the knights offer their thanks. Without the example of their respective leaders to follow, however, neither group shows any confidencein how to act toward one another. It is kept to kind gestures and indistinct grunts.

Merlin sits against one of the logs poised around the fire with Arthur on one side and Gwaine, who gives Merlin's hair an affectionate ruffle every few minutes and reminds him how he was sure he was a goner, on the other. But as he eats, there lingers the strong presence of words unsaid; of the questions pending. The others try to be patient about it, he can see it in their pauses, in the way they poke aimlessly at their food, adjust bandages, choose topics of smalltalk that die out all too soon, take drinks, anything in hopes of passing time more quickly, but Gwaine is the first to crack; his morale too heavy to be supported by his broken body any longer.

“Did they get him then?” He asks from where he now lies in the dirt beside Merlin, using the log as a pillow to prop his head up.There are dark circles under his eyes, and he cradles his arm against his chest. There is no clarification needed about the subject of his comment. Leon. Percival and Elyan turn their eyes to Merlin. They didn't ask the question, but they sure aren't going to miss the answer.

Merlin rests his spoon back into his near empty bowl, his appetite lessened, but before he even has to think of how to answer, Arthur speaks up. “Nothing is for certain.” He looks to Merlin, who gratefully gives him a nod to continue, “It's possible he was able to escape. Then again, there is also a chance he remains a captive.” It is a vague bit of information he offers the knights, but they do not ask for details on what happened. Not yet. And Merlin is glad for it. He knows those questions will arise eventually, but for now he can leave it to rest. He sees the wheels of speculation are already turning over in Gwaine's mind, and without a doubt,he'll be the first to press for more insight.

“I think there's a third likelihood you're not considering, mate,” says Allan ruefully from across the fire, where he works to finish his meal; two of his fingers are bound together, one of which is severely disfigured.

“You think they'd have killed him already?” Elyan asks, slightly affronted by the sounds of it.

Allan raises his hand slightly to show his innocence, the spoon dangling out from the crook of his thumb, “I'm just saying...I don't really see what good it would do on their part to hold a knight hostage. Especially if they were confident in their ability to arrest the king.” He turns his attention to Arthur, “You're the one they want anyway.” He motions his spoon around at the knights, “They were probably just going to off the rest of you.” No one protests.

“That was tactful,” Much says with a furrowed brow as he yanks Allan's bowl from his hands.

“Oi, did I say I was finished with that?”

Much adds the bowl to the pile he is collecting as he makes a sweep around the campfire, shaking his head, “Kicking 'em while they're down...”

“What? It's the truth,” says Allan, “And they deserve to know it. You don't want them to get their hopes up, do you? That rubbish'll get you killed in these parts.”

“That's a cheery outlook if I ever heard one,” Gwaine says under his breath.

“Welcome to Mercia,” John grumbles in return.

“Will and Djaq are in Nottingham now, checking on Marian,” Robinsays, getting back to the root concern, his bow is propped up against his knee as he works to tighten the strings on it. “If your friend is there, and alive, they'll hear of it. I wouldn't give way to grief just yet.” His eyes stay focused on his agile hands as he speaks, flicking only briefly towards the king.

After those few, albeit encouraging, words, Arthur and Robin do not speak again for quite some time. Merlin is not sure they know how to without gravitating towards incivility. They progress through the evening though, going about their own business, talking to anyone else that suits their needs, and taking moments only occasionally to glance in one another's direction. But most of Arthur's focus, Merlin finds, switches between surveying the state of his wounded friends and staring into the fire. Eyes fixed. Elbows on knees. Hands clasped in front of his pursed lips. It is a look that creeps up whenever Arthur's mind is fully consumed in the details of a gory internal debate.

No one else seems to notice his intense concentration, or else they are simply more keen on having their questions finally answered. They flock around Merlin. Not just the knights, but the thieves as well, eager to hear him recount the day's events.

“Those bastards had this all planned out,” Gwaine says when Merlin had finished. “If they didn't even try to keep up their friendly charade...”

Percival shakes his head in disgust, “They knew they were going to turn on us today.”

“Nerves got the best of them,” Robin says, looking around at Merlin and the knights. “They wanted Wart's death to look like it was my fault. Now suddenly they don't have time to be that strategic? Why? What's changed?”

“We did,” says Merlin. “We changed. Their plan was decent enough if we remained unaware, but the moment we no longer wanted Vaisey as an ally and declared him an enemy--”

“But how would they have learned that?” Elyan asks, his one good eye searching for answers. “We held that private council only last night.”

“Just before Marian was arrested,” Robin says, tapping the nock of his bow into the loose soil as he tries to think, but Merlin doesn't have to. He knows what happened. He remembers the presence hovering outside the door at the tavern, and trying to ward it off, but it must have been too late. They had heard enough.

Gwaine chucks a dead twig into the now roaring fire, “Someone was in a hurry to rat us out.”

“Someone daft,” Allan says with a slight chuckle. “Siding with Vaisey over Camelot? Come on...I'm a man of opportunity, but even with your less-than-desirable odds here, I know divine intervention when I see it.”

John cocks an eyebrow, “Divine intervention?”

“Yeah. You know. At the square today. The carriage...” As Allan searches the circle for justification, someone, anyone to show they get what he is saying, he finds nothing but confused expressions. “I'm not being funny,” he assures them, the intensity in his large eyes only magnified by the reflection of the flames flickering in them. “Come on. I can't be the only one that saw that giant bloody fireball save us from certain death.” He looks around again, “Am I?”

This catches Arthur's attention. From the corner of Merlin's eye, he sees the king turn his head towards the group to listen more closely.

“Am I?” Allan repeats.

“No,” Robin says. His gaze shifts towards Merlin, their eyes connecting, “You're not.” A cold shiver races down the young warlock's spine, rendering him immobile, like a stream suddenly frozen over at the first touch of winter's chill. The throbbing in his leg flees as all blood races to his ears, where his pulse deafens him with its pounding beats.

“There!” Much suddenly shouts. He is pointing. The world around Merlin careens as he tries to pull his focus from Robin, and follow the direction of Much's finger to where two figures are emerging from the heavy brush of the forest. Robin gets up as if nothing has transpired between them, and perhaps nothing has. Merlin can only hope. The others get to their feet as well, some more quickly than others. Gwaine swears again.

Merlin finally gathers himself, knowing sooner or later Robin's implications will be dealt with. He presses his palms down against the rough bark of the log he sits on, but before he can budge an inch skyward to stand, the heavy hand of Arthur lands on his shoulder, rooting him to his seat.

“Well?” Robin asks as Will and Djaq get closer.

Will nods, taking a moment to catch his breath, “They are keeping her and her father within the castle walls. Her father is being kept in the dungeon, but...” he shakes his head, “we don't know where Marian is being held for sure. She may be in the cells with Edward.”

“And Sir Leon?” Arthur asks.

“He is alive,” Djaq says, and all the tension in the knights' shoulders visibly melt, allowing them to breathe easier, but Merlin suspects it will not last long. The petite Saracen exchanges a weary glance with Will, who shifts his stance before meeting Arthur's gaze, and adding:

“For now.”

 


	12. Chapter Eleven

 

They have three days. Two now, Merlin thinks, if the pale glow of moonlight streaming into the cave is an indication of their passing from one side of the night into the other. Will and Djaq had brought good news: their friends are alive. But they had also brought with them a single piece of parchment that set their joy teetering on edge. It was a notice. The steward had wasted no time in drafting and circulating it all across Nottinghamshire, wanting each and every person – every knight, every thief, every _king_ – in the vicinity to know that in three days time there would be a public execution of a Camelot knight who has aided in the plot to kill King Leofrick. Leon.

It made no mention of Marian or Edward, but that did not ease Robin's concerns. Instead, it spiraled the evening into a heated argument over what to do, when to do it, and who will be apart of it. Hardly a surprise, really. The makeshift council consisted of two prideful groups, lead by two strong-willed men, who would rather cut out their tongues than use them to affirm one another.

Only one thing was agreed upon, and that was the fact that the execution itself would be the best time to make a rescue attempt. Leon, and with any hope Marian and her father, would not be under lock and key, guarded deep within the walls of Nottingham castle. Rather they would be out in the open, surrounded by spectators, much like the day when the men of Camelot first arrived. It had been done before. Now, with their numbers doubled, they ought to be able to succeed that much easier.

But there is a problem. Something no else has taken into consideration because it is a secret that Merlin has kept to himself. Something he fears could upheave the entire operation and cost him the life of his king. And that something is what Vaisey did not have at Brom's execution. The singing bangles. As much as Merlin would like to believe that they are harmless treasures merely worth their weight in gold, he knows better. He felt them, their seduction. So strong he could barely resist them himself. But with their true owner currently residing as a captive beneath the one who now possesses them, Merlin can think of only one other to turn to.

He props himself up onto his elbows. Around him shadows of his friends and the thieves sleeping soundly litter the cave. When it was clear the squabbling would continue, Djaq administered doses of painkillers to anyone who needed it (which happen to be every single one of them), imploring them to get rest so that a rational course of action can be decided in the morning. Within the hour, they were all dead to the world. And have been ever since.

Little John and Gwaine currently snore a duet, while Much mumbles in his sleep, and several others breathe deep and rhythmic. Beside him, Arthur is motionless, not making a sound. Whatever injury he suffered to his ribs must be stifling any snoring or audible breaths. For a minute, Merlin wonders if he is awake, but his face is too tranquil to be alive with his current worries.

Reaching to the ground below him, Merlin curls his fingers around the thin shaft of the crutch Djaq fashioned for him, and uses it to help him to his feet. He quietly weaves his way through the sea of sleeping men, careful not to trip over any sleeping on the ground, including Robin, who he almost did not see tucked away within the shadows.

* * *

“ _O drakon!_ _E_ _mala soi ftengometh tesd'hup anankes!_ ” Merlin shouts into the sky as he hobbles his way across the rough terrain towards the nearest clearing. It is a humbling experience to witness the Great Dragon descend so obediently upon him whenever called, but today, with his lack of fluid mobility, Merlin arrives at the field to find Kilgharrah already waiting patiently for him. His gold eyes shine through the nighttime air and survey him with concern, but Merlin can only smile up at his beastly friend, finding his presence to be of more comfort than he realized he even needed.

The Great Dragon leans back on his hind legs, settling in and lowering his head down as Merlin uses his crutch to propel himself a few steps closer, entering into the blanket of the beast's shadow, “I have never been more glad to see you.”

“It is late, young warlock.”

“Sorry...”

“It is not a complaint,” his gravel-laced voice says, “but a beacon of your heavy burdens. What is it that troubles you?”

“I need help,” Merlin says immediately. He readjusts the crutch beneath his arm, leaning more firmly against it for support. “I think...I think we're in over our heads. I don't know what to do.”

“There will always be a time when the one who faces an obstacle cannot see how to overcome it,” he says. “It is only when you begin to climb the barrier that you find the footholds that will lead to the other side. You have never failed Arthur before, what makes you think this time will be different?”

“Our friends. They have been taken captive by Morgana and Lord Vaisey,” says Merlin. “Leon is to be executed in a few days, but with the steward trying to turn all of Mercia against Arthur for something he didn't do, and with the knights all being wounded...with _me_ being wounded...any course of action could cost us one or all of our lives. How am I supposed to protect so many from so much?”

“Merlin, your destiny is not to save them all. If you try, your efforts will be stretched too thin, and an Albion united under the Once and Future King will not come to pass. Your one and only concern must be Arthur's safety. He must return to Camelot, alive, and continue on destiny's road. Then, and only then, will the Old and New Religion be able to coexist in peace.”

“I know that,” Merlin says, “But Arthur has an agenda here that cannot be swayed. If I could take him back to Camelot right now, I would, but he is a man of honor. No matter how much danger he is in, he will not cross the border between our kingdoms until he has fulfilled his promise to Marian.”

“Then you must help him fulfill it.”

 _Must_. It is a word that Merlin has been hearing far too much of over the course of his time in Camelot. Every time it is spoken, it is as if the scarf around his neck gets tied a little tighter. He tugs lightly at it with his free hand.

“I'm trying,” he says, his hands become clammy the more he tries to weave a picture of what _must also_ be done, “But before he will try to dethrone Lord Vaisey, he is determined to get Leon and Marian to safety, which will require the knights and thieves to rally up against a power that is beyond them. Something they don't fully understand. I don't even know if _I_ fully understand it.”

“The witch.”

“In part. And...I think...the steward himself.”

“The steward is no sorcerer, Merlin,” says the Great Dragon, “You can sense that as much as I.”

“He stole something from Marian. A pair of bangles. Bracelets. I've never seen them in any of Gaius' books, but they hold a magnitude of magic within them that is beyond what I have ever experienced. What ever he plans to do with them will not be good for Arthur. I was hoping you would be able to tell me what they did.”

“There is a time and a place for such insight to be given, young warlock, but it is not here and it is not now. Nor is it by me.”

Merlin frowns, staring up at the giant creature to determine whether his defiance is out of sincere foresight or mere obstinance. “I have to know. Arthur's life depends on it.” A few words is all it would take for the Great Dragon to forfeit the answer, but this is his friend, not his slave, and he never takes joy in treating him as one. “I thought you were with us. I thought you wanted us to fulfill our destinies. Why would you turn your back on us now?”

“Do not accuse me of disloyalty for sending you on a path other than the one you find easiest. There are many sorcerers in Mercia, Merlin. Find just one. They will tell you. And it will serve you for the better in the end.”

“Could you...give me a name?” Merlin asks, “Maybe? Or where I might find him?”

“A name will be revealed in time. As will his location.” His skin is cold and damp as Merlin runs a hand down his face, but before he can open his mouth to respond, Kilgharrah says, “You will either have to trust me or compel me, young warlock. Which will it be?”

There is a part rooted deep within Merlin that wishes so badly to force the Great Dragon into compliance, but with nearly a thousand years of wisdom over him, Merlin cannot stomach the thought of exhibiting such arrogance. “I trust you.”

“You came seeking my help and I have provided you with less than you desired, but let me offer you this...” Kilgharrah stands to his full height, signally that the end of their conversation is close. “There are many in Mercia with ties to Albion's king. To his past and to his future. They will try to reenter his life now, when the threads of his destiny are most vulnerable of breaking.”

“Robin and Marian...”

“To name a few. But there are more. And they, too, are coming. Promise me you'll take care. For if you let the wrong ones get too close, it will be his undoing.”

With every passing second, as the dangers around him and his friends seem to multiply, a string of words move more eagerly toward the tip of Merlin's tongue. An enchantment. One that, if spoken, would render Arthur unconscious. It would be a far easier solution to simply haul him back to Camelot and out of harms way, but there is something in his gut that tells him Camelot's border would not be enough to stop Morgana and Lord Vaisey from carrying out their plans. No, Arthur is right: the steward must be removed.

But with whose help?

“Can any of them be trusted?” he asks, thinking of Robin Hood, his men, and Marian – all of whom have been and could prove to be of great support to them.

“Yes, of course, but it is your duty to sift out the gold from the grime.”

Merlin nods, “I'll do my best.” He starts to pivot carefully around his crutch, the walk back to camp becoming less appealing the more tired his good leg becomes from his dependance on it. But Merlin suddenly stops...

A gentle breeze blows from behind, enveloping him in a warm embrace that smells of smoldering ember and ash. Its heat closes in around him until its dense haze seeps through the fabric of his clothes and the protection of his skin to meld into his very veins where it flows rapidly throughout his body. The wound clamped around his calf, rigid and thumping against the tender sinew of his muscles, releases its grip, melting away and taking every ounce of pain with it.

Shifting his weight, Merlin puts pressure on his leg, smiling when it finds it can hold him up entirely on its own. He bounces lightly on it before spinning around to look up at the Great Dragon.

“Much rests on your shoulders, young warlock, you will need your strength.”

“Thank you...” Merlin says as he watches Kilgharrah's wings spread out over ahead and stir up a whirlwind. He begins to take flight. The thunderous flaps echo across the Sherwood forest, and before long, the Great Dragon's majestic presence fades away until it appears as nothing more than the distant silhouette of a fluttering bat.

Merlin smiles down at his healed leg, flourishing his crutch through the air, quite pleased with the fact that its abrasive structure no longer has to be thrust into the pit of his arm in order to take a single step in any direction. He spins around with a renewed energy, ready to make his way back to the others when he drops the crutch to the ground. A heavy rock sinks to the bottom of his gut.

On the edge of the field, staring up into the sky where Kilgharrah had just vanished, stands Robin. He had come silently. And now he remains silent, surveying the empty canvas of night speckled only by the stars. There is no telling how long he has been there or how much he has heard.

Merlin walks hastily toward him, “I can explain...”

“Is it true? What that thing said about Wart?” Robin asks quietly, slowly lowering his eyes to meet Merlin's. “Is he our only hope for peace in this land?”

There is a second when Merlin cannot seem to form words. This outlaw, who has just witnessed his magic, witnessed a conversation between a Dragonlord and his dragon, and has witnessed the reveal of his biggest personal secret – a secret that if made public could ruin not only his own life, but the lives of many – shows no concern for any of it. His first inquiry, what is most pressing to him, is the truth about Arthur's future.

“When I told you he was destined for greatness,” Merlin finally says, “I meant it.”

Robin searches Merlin's face with an emotion the young warlock cannot quite place...pity? Sadness? Hurt? But none of them make sense. His eyes droop with a swirling flurry of thoughts that remain confined behind his closed lips, and Merlin, unacquainted with the bandit's mind, cannot begin to decipher them like he often can with his king. Robin's brow twitches together to form a momentary crease as he drops his gaze to the grass between them, and his fingers fiddle aimlessly with the string tied at the nock of his bow, a common habit, Merlin is coming to discover.

“He doesn't even know, does he?”

“He...knows he has expectations to live up to,” Merlin says, “But beyond that, I am not sure he thinks he is meant for anything more than a short time on the throne of Camelot, for good or ill.”

Ruffling his own hair, Robin seems to struggle to process the reality of his childhood friend's fate, “After all he's done...the mistakes he made, the people he tossed aside...” he shakes his head, “How is it that he is the one meant for glory in the end?”

Merlin tries to choose his words carefully. “I know Arthur has hurt you,” he says, taking another tentative step his way, “just like magic has hurt him. All here are in need of atonement for what they have done. Maybe then you'll see the king he is striving to be and he'll see people of magic for who they are rather than for what his father has taught them to be.”

“If that's your wish, it seems to me you'd be a good place to start where that's concerned,” says Robin. He cocks an eyebrow as he flicks an accusatory glance Merlin's way. “But you keep it a secret...why?”

“Because if he isn't ready to openly accept sorcery into Camelot, I'd be forcing his hand against me, becoming one more mark on his tally of people who've betrayed him.” Merlin's face contorts at the very thought of it, shaking his head adamantly, “I could never do that to him.”

“A good friend if I ever saw one. But apparently not all share your consideration towards him.” Robins gestures his bow towards the sky, tipping it in the direction that Kilgharrah made his leave, “That creature said there are people from Wart's past that could be his undoing while here in Nottinghamshire. But he didn't name names...only confirmed possibilities.”

“It is difficult to determine the paths people will choose to take. He could not name names because it would alter my judgment and may have ultimately condemned--”

“I just don't want it to be me, Merlin.” The words come rushing out of the bandit's mouth, not with the urgency of annoyance or denial, but of pure fear. He swallows, knowing that Merlin is well aware of this. Setting his jaw, Robin looks down at his bow, trying to stop up the crack that has unwillingly allowed his inner frailty to leak out for Merlin to see. His voice becomes stronger, “I only mean...no matter what faults he carries --”

“You don't have to explain,” Merlin says. “I know it won't be you.” As he stares at Robin, and he sees it now: the two little boys, broken-hearted and calloused over by the years of dragging around with them a severed half of a friendship that will not be mended until one makes the first move. One must be willing to extend their half out and give the other the opportunity to fuse it with their own. But they have both experienced so much hurt. And something that has been repaired either grows stronger in the end, or becomes more vulnerable to shattering. It is a risk neither one is willing to take.

“Listen,” says Robin, turning the focus outward, “As much as I'd like to, I can't very well refute the word of a talking dragon.” He tosses a hand skyward. “And if this is all meant to be, if that is the king Arthur is meant to become, then I want to be someone who will help it come to pass. We'll get him back to Camelot safely, but you're going to have to trust me. Can you do that?”

“You've given me no reason not to,” Merlin says, suppressing a grin as he bobs his head to the side and adds, “You know...apart from the dragging me to your camp, holding me hostage, your general disdain for the very man you're swearing to help--”

“I saved his life!”

Merlin's grin finally breaks through, “And that pompous attitude...”

Robin cracks a smile, “You are a cheeky one, aren't you?” He shoves Merlin's face away before pointing to the crutch abandoned on the grass. “Don't forget that. Wart's thick, but he'll notice if you're miraculously healed. They all will. And we have a walk to take tomorrow morning.” He turns and heads back towards the cover of the forest.

“A walk?” Merlin asks, scooping up his crutch before hurrying to catch up to Robin, falling in stride beside him. “Where are we going?”

“Barnsdale,” he says. “I know a sorcerer there, and I think he might have the answers we need. I'll need you to keep an open mind though.”

“Why's that?”

“This sorcerer? His name is Brom.”

* * *

There was little sleep to be had upon returning to the cave that night. On top of the matter of encountering Brom once again, Merlin's mind was full of other words from his recent conversations; ones that, while in the moment, he was not able to digest properly. Kilgharrah had said it was here, and now, that Arthur's destiny was most vulnerable, which can only mean it is the outcome of these events that Albion, and Arthur's very life, will hinge on. Even by Gwaine's standards, the odds are not looking in their favor; a dozen men against an entire kingdom? One with magic at its very core nonetheless? It was all Merlin could do not to roll over on his cot and retch his nerves out onto the floor.

But then there was also the matter of Arthur's undoing; people from his past who will return to cause his downfall. It has been made clear on several accounts that Morgana wishes nothing but harm to come to Arthur, and given all that has happened during their time here, the help they received, the words spoken, Merlin cannot believe that it would be Robin or Marian. Robin is determined for it not to be him. It seems too easy. Too black and white. As if no sorting need be done as Kilgharrah suggested. And that is most worrisome of all. Who is out there? Are there any with layers of grime that can be wiped away to reveal gold? Or any covered with gold that can be flecked off to reveal nothing but malicious grime beneath?

The thought haunts Merlin, even now after the sun has risen and his friends with it. After another good night's sleep, they are far more spirited; it shows in their eyes, in their speech, and most of all, in their appetites. The porridge barely makes it to their bowls before it's gone and they all wait their turns to receive treatment from Djaq for their day old wounds. Allan was the first to go so that he could head into Nottingham to retrieve updated information, followed by Arthur, and now Gwaine. The feisty knight and the Saracen bicker quietly off to the side as she works on him, frequently distracting Will as he tries to draw Nottingham's castle in the dirt to explain the various entry points of the courtyard to Arthur, who remains rapt even amidst their moments of interruption.

“You're awfully quiet this morning,” Percival says from beside Merlin. Apparently it was a strategy gone wrong. Merlin had hoped the quieter he was, the less he would be noticed, and the less likely it would be for Djaq to realize she had yet to examine him. “Your leg giving you grief?”

“What? This thing?” Merlin says with a smile, “Nah, can hardly even feel it.”

Percival laughs, “Right. Nothing but a scratch, eh? A true soldier...”

“Ah!” Gwaine cries out, drawing everyone's attention from their various places around the fire. His arm is curled up against his body while his free hand grips his shoulder tightly. Sweat pours down his face, seemingly taking the color on his cheeks with it. “The hell was that!?”

“Did you want me to leave it dislocated!?” Djaq says, forcing him to sit up tall again. “Don't be such a lily flower...”

“A lily– what does that even mean?” Gwaine squeezes his eyes shut tight as the small woman beside him pries his arm from his own grasp to double-check her work.

“You're a fragile beauty,” Percival grins, then looks at Djaq. “Careful. He can't help it.”

“Well I won't argue the beauty part,” says Gwaine, “But as for the other bit...”

“It's simply untrue,” says Arthur.

“Thank you...”

“No man with a skull _that_ hard can be considered fragile,” Arthur continues with a smile, bringing out a few laughs, and Merlin is glad to see another night of rest has done him good as well.

Before Gwaine can rebut, Elyan says, “Arthur's right. I mean Gwaine's neck alone...” he shakes his head, a gleam of mischief in his solitary good eye, “the strength it must have to hold up a head with _that_ much weight on it...” A round of laughter circulates the dying fire, and out of the corner of his eye, Merlin spots Robin looking at him. They lock eyes briefly while everyone is unaware of anything but Gwaine's misfortune. The bandit nods his head towards Arthur, urging Merlin on.

“It always comes back to the hair...”

“It is quite voluptuous,” Djaq teases, running her fingers through it to pull it up gently before letting it fall back to his head. But before she can finish the motion, Gwaine gets to his feet.

“Come on...” he says, motioning out, “Pick on Perce for once, would ya?”

“What's to pick on?” Elyan asks, shifting his eye towards Percival, who only watches Gwaine get riled with amusement, daring him to find something.

“Just look at him,” he says, seizing this opportunity to mock his friend. Merlin scoots along the log to sit closer to Arthur, but remains silent, unsure of how to begin as Gwaine continues, “He's...tall.”

Arthur glances toward Merlin, raising a quizzical eyebrow when he realizes how close he has suddenly become, “What do you want, Merlin?”

“Nothing. I mean, I don't _want_ anything...exactly...”

“Tall? Is that all you've got?” Elyan asks with a chuckle.

“No?,” Arthur says, “Well you're here and you have that face.”

Merlin frowns, “What face?”

“The face of an infant in need of burping. Unless you're looking for a few smacks to the back, I suggest you just let it out.”

“No,” Gwaine shifts his weight, “He's also bald. Or...almost is.”

“You...want me to burp?”

Arthur stares at Merlin, “I want you to say what it is you need to say, or give me some breathing room. I'll take either one.”

“It's...um...” Merlin rubs his face and looks over his shoulder toward Robin, who watches them from where he leans against a tree near the campfire. He knows he must tell his king about the bracelets, but he had hoped he wouldn't have to, that Kilgharrah would have had the answer and they wouldn't have to discuss one more advantage the steward has over them or the subject of sorcery or the implications that will arise from learning that these magical artifacts were once housed within Marian's very home. Arthur glances toward the bandit as well, his brow instantly furrowing.

“Has he said something to you?”

“No...well, yes, but...”

“There has to be a joke in there somewhere, eh?” insists Gwaine as Djaq forces him to sit back down, “Something about the weather up there not being suitable for growing hair.”

“Did he threaten you about something?”

“No. No...”

“Are you certain?” Arthur shifts his focus back to the bandit, his gaze scrutinizing. “Because if he has...”

Percival laughs, “Apparently not as suitable as down where you are, little man.”

There is another round of laughter. But it is louder, even without Arthurand Merlin joining in this time. The sound of Much's laughbreaks through all the others, overflowing with merriment as he points at Gwaine, “Because he's short!”

Over it all, Merlin and Arthur still manage to hear Robin's voice. “I can feel your judgment from all the way over here, Wart,” he says, shoving himself off the tree to step in closer – a movement that causes Arthur to get to his feet. “Your lack of confidence in me is no way to repay our hospitality.”

“Wait, sire,” Merlin whispers urgently, trying to grab his king'ssleeve to pull him back down to his seat, but he is out maneuvered as Arthur effortlessly swings his arm out of reach.The joy around them, and all the smiles sparked by it, slowly melts in confusion.

“It's incredible, really,” says Robin, “Even after yesterday, you still don't want to believe anything but the worst in me.”

“Forgive me for remaining cautious.”

“I thought we put our differences aside for now,” Will saystiredly from his place on the log.

“Yeah, what's this about?” Djaq asks.

“I don't know,” Arthur says, looking between Robin and Merlin. “I have yet to hear it. But whatever it is has my servant's nerves on edge.”

“ _You_ have him on edge. I'm just trying to help,” Robin says. “So if you'd just quiet the hooves of your high horse and listen to what we have to say--”

“Help me?” Arthur nods, unconvinced. “Somehow I doubt that's what he was about to tell me. Merlin...” He motions for Merlin to go ahead and speak, but Merlin would rather not. He was silent for too long and now he knows his king's irritation is inevitable. “Come on, don't be afraid.”

Merlin scratches his temple, “Actually...he is trying to help, sire.” Merlin risks a glance up at Arthur, “When Vaisey raided Marian's...I may have forgotten to mention that he took with him something, a pair of objects, bracelets, that I thinkhold some sort of magic. I don't know what he intends to use them for, but Robin knows a sorcerer that might be able to give us some answers.”

“You 'may have forgotten to mention' it?” Arthur says, his voice raising ever-so-slightly in pitch with his annoyance, “You learn of a mysterious magical object falling into our enemies hands, and you just...forgot to mention it to me, your own king?”

Merlin stares up at him, finally realizing there is only one thing to say, “Yes?”

“For the love of...” Arthur mumbles, massaging the bridge of his nose.

“It doesn't have to be right now,” Robin says quietly as if not wanting to disturb Arthur, though everyone there knows he cares little where that is concerned, “But whenever it's ready, I'd love to hear that apology you owe me.” He grins at Arthur, resting his hands comfortably atop his hips and rocking back on his heels.

A long-suffering sigh slips from Arthur's lips as he looks down at Merlin, “Now you see what you've done? You've put Hood in the right.” He turns to Robin, “It's true. I do owe you an apology. You and your men have been nothing but cordial since you came to our aid yesterday, and jumping to conclusions was no way to compensate for that kindness. Perhaps, in addition to working on his short-term memory, my servant will learn to form prompt and _complete_ sentences when they are needed so that we may avoid these inconveniences in the future. Isn't that right, Merlin?”

Merlin nods, but the quirk of his king's eyebrow draws out exactly what he asked for, “Yes, that's right, sire.”

Robin continues to smile, but the vanity that previously lifted it into place is replaced with sincerity. He gives a friendly nod, “No harm done, Wart.”

“As of now,” says Much, “But if what Merlin says is true, then we are planning a rescue that just might turn out to be the death of us all. And I, for one, am not ready to go just yet.”

“We'll figure something out, Much,” says Robin.

“We had better do the figuring quickly,” Gwaine, whose color is slowly returning, says from where he sits obediently once again; Djaq stands at his shoulder, adjusting a sling around his arm. “Leon is set to be executed at dusk tomorrow.”

Arthur immediately looks to Robin, “Where can we find this sorcerer friend of yours?”

“Barnsdale. It's a fair distance from here.”

“Then we should leave at once,” he says, turning to pick up his sword and slipping it into his belt. Merlin watches as the knights begin to stir, unable to get to their feet as quickly as Arthur, and having to muster up enough energy to fight their evident pain; Percival still struggles with his knee, while Elyan must adjust his eye patch to ensure it is secure.

Just as he is about to protest, Robin beats him to it, “Wait, just hold on a second. There is a certain level of discretion we need to maintain here. A dozen men infiltrating one man's home in a small village will not go unseen. Merlin and I can manage on our own.” He speaks directly to Arthur now, “You and your men should stay behind. As it is they're in no shape to be doing much of anything and we'll need them at their best tomorrow.”

“They can stay,” says Arthur, glancing around at the three wounded. “In fact, that is an order.” His gaze shifts back to the outlaw, “But I'm coming.”

Merlin, nearly forgetting to use his crutch, gets to his feet, “Arthur, maybe Robin's right. You--”

“Do you realize, Merlin, that anytime I have taken my eye off of you for more than two seconds while we've been here, you either end up captive or unconscious?”

Thinking back, Merlin remembers Robin's knife pressing to his throat while Arthur was busy fighting, the magic he used amidst the bedroom fire taking it's toll while Arthur searched for a way to survive, getting caught by Robin after evading Arthur to spy on Sir Guy and Morgana, and ultimately getting shot and being consumed by the darkness when Arthur sent him a separate way.

“It's a phenomenon, really,” Arthur says. “I don't know how you manage it.”

“Talent, I suppose.”

“Or utter stupidity...” he offers as he passes by to head towards the edge of the forest. It doesn't surprise Merlin that Arthur is already taking the lead. He makes a habit of pouring over the maps of any region he intends to visit, more for safety reasons, but this time, it offers the added convenience of not having to rely on a bandit's guidance to get him through the woods.

“Do _you_ realize, Wart,” asks Robin, “that you are, in fact, campaigning to be included in a quest that is comprised solely of visiting a man of magic?” He folds his arms with a vague smirk. “I don't think I've ever been more proud.”

“Shut up.” The king's quick and stunted reply brings back the mirth that was previous stifled by the shift in their conversation, but none of the grins are wider than the ones that are exchanged between his two travel companions.

* * *

It's an odd feeling, traipsing through the woods again with Robin at his side; it was something Arthur had written off, along with a list of other things he was certain would never happen again. Having been assumed rather early on in his life, it sat near the top of the list, but continued to visit his thoughts no less than the ones at the bottom whose ink is still fresh. He gives his shoulders an involuntary shrug, hoping any old sentiments will slip off and remain abandoned in the middle of the forest floor where they can finally be forgotten.

“You know,” Robin says after a long bout of silence, “The fact that you showed up in Locksley at all yesterday...I can't exactly say I'm not shocked.”

“Nor I,” says Arthur, pushing a low hanging branch out of his way. “After waiting the better half of a day, I was beginning to think you weren't going to come.”

“Yeah? You try orchestrating the fill and transport of all those baskets and see how punctual _you_ are.” He shakes his head, slipping through the open path in the brush behind Arthur before he has a chance to close it, “Lots of supplies to procure...”

“You mean _steal_.”

“I mean _buy_ ,” he pauses then adds with a crooked smile, “with stolen funds. Thank you for that by the way. You were a tremendous help.”

Arthur glances at him out of the corner of his eye, “What are you talking about?”

“Well,” Hood begins, clearly pleased to elaborate, “were it not for the mediocre escort you provided, my men and I would never have been able to pinch that tax carriage so easily.”

“You got nowhere near that carriage,” says Arthur, refusing to give into his goading.

Robin chuckles, “Oh, didn't I?While you and your knights went back to the castle to sulk over the absence of your puppy, my men and I set out to finish what we started. You left it completely unguarded. Very sloppy of you, your majesty.”

A deep crease forms in the middle of Arthur's brow as hechecks back over his shoulder at the gimpy puppy himself before turning his attention back to Robin, “You're lying. I heard no news of that.”

“It's been a long few days,” Merlin interjects. “Does it really matter anymore?”

“You're a guest, Wart,” says Robin, ignoring Merlin, “Or _were_ a guest, is more like it now, I suppose, eh?” He skirts a large tree trunk, “In Camelot you may be the prime audience member for issues of state, but here you are nothing more than the victim of a magic show. Seeing and hearing only what the magician allows in order to manipulate your perception of reality.”

Arthur stops walking, “ _Hang on_ \--”

“I think,” Merlin says as he begins talking loudly over Arthur, “maybe we...should...you know, just be thankful. Any negligence that may have taken place _did_ help to feed an entire village after all.”

There is a brief pause that falls over the three of them, its silence filled only by the rustling of the underbrush. Arthur, spotting the rise of a smirk on Robin's lips, pivots his head to looksharply at Merlin, displeased that his own servant would give the bandit a chance to settle that blasted smugness upon his face again.

Coming to stop beside him, Merlin takes a moment to adjust the crutch beneath his arm, grimacing as he does so. “Right, sire?”

Arthur slaps him upside the head.

Merlin flinches, “Ah, what was that for?”

“ _Negligence_?”

“Oh,” Merlin says. “Well not _yours_ , sire, obviously. And actually...now that I think about it...yes, you are definitely right. There is no way they could have got to that money. And certainly not past you of all people. How could they? You never forget anything, never make a mistake, you think things out, always with a plan, that's how you operate, and you would never even be _capable_ of slipping up or making even the most minute mistake. It's just not in your nature, sire--”

“Shut up, Merlin.” Arthur continues after Robin, bored by his servant's ramblings and more interested in what Robin is peering at through the thicket. “What is it?” he asks quietly as he stoops down beside him.

“We're here,” says Robin. “Brom's house is just at the bottom of this ridge. If we can slip in through the back, we should be able to avoid being seen by too many.”

Arthur stares at the small house, not because it has particularly interesting architecture or because the activity of the hens in the coop are overly enthralling, but because of the person it holds inside, “Brom? As in...”

“One and the same,” Robin pats Arthur's shoulder. “Stay here. Wait for my signal.” Pushing his way through a gap in the branches, the outlaw scurries down the side of the ridge and across the small plot of field to the safety of the overhang shading the back doorstep. He knocks.

The door cracks open then swings wide, presumably at the sight of Robin, but before the man inside can fully emerge, Arthur quickly diverts his gaze toward his servant, who comes to join him. It is an impulse he cannot explain. All he knows is that he does not wish to see the face of Brom. Merlin is enough of a distraction for the time being, sweating at his temples like a pig and breathing as though he just sprinted across the forest rather than limped along at an irritatingly laggard pace.

“Did you know it was him all along?” Arthur asks as Merlin drops his crutch bitterly to the ground between them, and rubs his sore armpit.

“I...might have.”

“And you just 'forgot to mention' that as well, did you?”

“I told you not to come, but you didn't listen to me – as usual. How is that my fault?”

“Because you're an idiot, that's how!” Arthur shifts to face his friend more directly, “I dismissed the pleas of his wife and sentenced the very man we're seeking help from to death. This isn't just going to be water under the bridge.”

“It might be if you just apologize,” Merlin says. “It's a good first step anyway.”

“Apologize.”

“Yes, and while I know you're not exactly fond of doing it, I've seen you--”

“First of all, this is no small matter. I didn't break a pot or trample their garden. An apology might do good there, but not here,” Arthur says. “Second of all, regardless of how I feel about Vaisey now, Brom was guilty of treason against what was a potential ally at the time. My sentence stands. I have nothing to apologize for.” His words make Merlin stop. For once he has no quick reply, no argument. He just stares at him, his brow knit together tightly and his eyes drooping with a disappointment Arthur is not accustomed to seeing on his face. It makes Arthur shift his weight and opt for a view of the cottage after all.

In the threshold, Brom himself stands at the door with Robin, apparently taking part in a civil conversation. He works on a small piece of wood in his hand as they talk, whittling it into something that can't be identified from this distance. Taller than Arthur remembered, and quite grizzly, Brom doesn't look anything like he sometimes imagines sorcerers to be, but instead appears altogether normal, mundane, not eccentric like so many others he's encountered.

But there is something else different about him. He labors over a piece of wood that could quite simply be whispered into whatever form he desires without lifting a finger, just as he most certainly could have saved himself from the gallows without waiting for the heroic displays of a band of outlaws. Yet he allowed the steward's judgment to pass upon him unchallenged. The only thing Arthur can't understand is why.

“You don't mean that.” Merlin's voice breaks through Arthur's thoughts; he stares down at the pair as well, but his face is rigid, his jaw set to contain harsher words Arthur knows he is holding back. Merlin doesn't look at him, but continues talking, “Everyone in that square saw your reluctance. They saw that you wanted to show Brom mercy, but didn't – not out of your own judgment, but out of Vaisey's. So you can't tell me that you have no regrets.”

Arthur studies him a moment, “You're forgetting your place, Merlin. I was in a tough position. One that you wouldn't understand. A difficult decision needed to be made. Either way I was going to disappoint someone.”

“I know that.”

“But you don't think I appeased the appropriate person?”

“I think you successfully earned the favor of someone of benefit to you,” Merlin says. “Your father would have been proud of the choices you made that day.”

It's not an insult. But it certainly stings.

“That's not a real answer,” Arthur says.

“You wanted me to remember my place. That's what I'm doing.”

Arthur lets out a small breath, “Fine...I like you better quiet anyway.” He is not going to apologize. Not to Brom, not to Merlin. And the fact that their conversation has been cut short makes it that much easier for him to keep his resolve on the matter.

“You really want to know what I think?” Merlin asks once his moment of pouting is finished, clearly unable to keep his opinion locked in silence behind his teeth. Arthur should have known it wouldn't be so easy.

“Not usually,” he says.

“I think you're an arrogant clotpole--”

“And this is why,” Arthur immediately says, standing to dust himself off.

“--which means!” Merlin continues, latching onto Arthur's arm, using it to assist in pulling himself to his feet, “which means that you want to be liked by everyone. You want all of their approval. Their praises. But you'll never get it.”

Arthur yanks his arm from his grasp, “You're an encouragement, Merlin, truly.”

“No, listen to me Arthur. You are a fair king, one who rules with his heart, but you let Lord Vaisey get into your head that day. To _doubt_ your heart. But you can't do that. Because as soon as you do, as soon as you let anyone else decide what is right, you will no longer be the king that Camelot loves or that all the realms admire. You will disappoint everyone, including yourself.”

“I stopped doubting it and look where it has gotten us,” Arthur throws his arms out. “A treaty is no longer an option – not while Vaisey rules. My men can barely hold themselves up, one is even in line for the gallows, Marian is Vaisey's prisoner, and I'm looking to a _sorcerer_ for help. I swore to bring Camelot peace and instead...because I...” he waves a hand toward Merlin, finding great discomfort in using his words, “ _ruled with my heart_ , I am bringing them to war.”

Merlin furrows his brow, resting his hands on his king's shoulders, “I would fight a thousand battles against Mercia if it meant keeping the King Arthur that spares people from injustice and avoiding the one that sacrifices his integrity to pacify some...gold-toothed gopher.”

The stern expression on Arthur's face, deeply etched with turmoil, slowly gives way to a small smile, “A gopher.”

“It was either that or a hedgehog, but he doesn't have the hair--”

Arthur's smile grows until it breaks out into a chuckle. “On this rare occasion, I think you might have just proven to be _actually_ funny.”

“I'm always funny, you just don't always have a sense of humor.”

“That's debatable,” Arthur says flatly. He glances down towards Robin, noticing that Brom is no longer standing with him at the door. He must have retreated inside because Robin continues to talk to the empty threshold, motioning towards them every now and then with great intensity. Just when Arthur thinks he will be refused entrance, Robin looks up to the ridge and waves them over with a simple flick of his hand.

Arthur stays where he is. A weight harnesses him to the spot in which he stands, threatening to settle there for good unless dealt with here and now. “I do owe him an apology, don't I?”

“You can make amends, Arthur,” says Merlin at his shoulder. “There doesn't have to be shame in regret.”

He looks over at his friend a moment before he takes Merlin's crutch in one hand and works to keep Merlin's arm slung over his shoulders with the other, bearing most of his weight for him, “I hate it when you make sense...”

“One of us has to.”

“This is the second apology you've cost me today,” Arthur says.

“Sorry...”

“No, you're not.”

“No, I'm not,” says Merlin. “But I have to set a good example. You won't learn these things on your own.”

“Merlin...shut up.”

With Arthur's help, the two quickly descend from where they are perched above the town, so much so that Merlin's good foot cannot hop fast enough to keep up with Arthur's pace, leaving it to drag along defeated in the grass behind them.Brom's home blocks them from being seen by the bustling village center, but that does not ease Arthur's worries enough to slow him down. They draw only the attention of the neighbors, some of whom are working to sow the soil behind their houses, while others hang their damp laundry out to dry. Robin, who waits for them outside, catches Arthur's shoulder before he can step inside.

“Let me do the talking,” he says.

Even after searching the bandit's eyes, Arthur cannot be sure what they are getting themselves into. There is no fear in them, no sense of danger. More than anything, there is reluctance. It is a satisfying sight to see Robin nervous. He realizes he is not fully in control of what is about to happen here. Arthur has some say. And Arthur will have his say. He'll make sure of it. He continues through the door, and is immediately met by Brom, who relieves Arthur from the duty of hauling Merlin, helping the tired servant into a nearby armchair.

“There we are...” his gruff voice says with surprising repose as he situates Merlin's injured leg on top of a three-legged stool. “That ought to ease it a bit, eh?”

“Thank you,” says Arthur. “We appreciate your willingness to help.”

“Willing, but do not make the mistake of thinking I am not reluctant.”

“No, and you have every right,” Arthur begins as he rests Merlin's crutch against the end table beside him, but his mind drifts from his own words when he sees a piece of parchment laying on top of a pile of assorted papers and books.

“What is it?” Merlin asks. Arthur lifts it carefully from its place, finding it rigid and crisp against his fingers, having most likely just dried after spending the morning out in the dew. The black calligraphy scrawled across it is bold and unmistakeably legible, reading: “PROCLAMATION! 1000 GOLD PIECES FOR THE CAPTURE AND LIVE DELIVERY OF THE VILLANOUS TRAITOR AND KING OF CAMELOT, ARTHUR PENDRAGON. BY ORDER OF LORD VAISEY, REGENT AND STEWARD OF MERCIA.”

“Huh. Would you look at that?” says Robin, peering over Arthur's shoulder, “That's an impressive accomplishment there, Wart. I didn't even know you could put out a warrant for a king.”

“Cross the steward harshly enough and even political decorum is tossed out like scrap for the fodder. He'll do whatever it takes to gain his ends,” says Brom, lowering himself into a handcrafted rocking chair, whittling more bits off of his piece of wood, which up close is looking more and more like a rabbit with every flick of his knife

Arthur shakes his head as he stares down at his name. There has been a price on his head before, but this time, to have it so official and so public, is a new, bitter sensation that will not quickly fade or be forgotten, “Surely the people of this kingdom will see past his lies.” Arthur drops his hand to his side in exasperation, the parchment crinkling against his leg, “These allegations are ridiculous.”

“That may be,” the sorcerer says, motioning his knife briefly toward the proclamation, “But whether they are true or not, that reward will feed a family for months if not more.”

“He's right,” Robin says, making himself comfortable on a bench near the fireplace. “Whether it's honest money or not doesn't matter if it'll keep someone's children alive a little longer.”

“And if you think these aren't desperate times, Your Highness, you are mistaken,” Brom never shifts his gaze from the work at hand, remaining focused, “I suggest you watch yourself because your pleas, however convincing, will not be heard over the growl of hungry stomachs.”

“A fair return of fortune, I'd say,” says Arthur, glancing from Brom to Merlin. His throat goes dry as he tries to summon a further apology, but only manages to clear his airway after his crippled friend urges him on with a nod, “Listen...what I did before...to you...to your wife--” Out of the corner of his eye, he catches Robin shaking his head, countering the silent advice Merlin has given him.

Brom blows he sawdust free from his figurine, now quite complete in its form, and leans back in his seat to finally level his luminous russet eyes upon him. “Your words are unnecessary. What happened cannot be made up for with words,” he says, “only actions. You're here, the steward wants you dead, and you are now in the company of Robin Hood, a man I have entrusted the life of my family to over and again.” Brom glances at Robin before a creak in the plank flooring draws all of their attention to the bedroom door where Catraine emerges. In her arms, she holds a young girl with wild curls that remind Arthur so much of Leofrick's. Only this child eyes him warily, not with the admiration and trust that Mercia's little king always seemed to. Brom keeps his gaze on his wife, but continues to speak to Arthur, “I am choosing to believe all that means you are well on your way to restoring the honor you lost that day.”

“Brom...what's going on?” She walks with great hesitation into the room, lowering her eyes when she approaches Arthur. “Your Majesty...” She dips into a curtsy, the light that illuminated her face with hope the first time they met is nowhere in sight, nor is the fluidity of her bearing. In it's place is a constraint that he has only seen when a meek villager would be forced to speak before his father, as if they have been out in the winter's cold for too long, and their joints can barely move when told to. If this is what it is like to be feared, he wants none of it.

Arthur gives her a nod in return, but before he can say anything Brom speaks up, “Robin has asked a favor of me, Cat. I can hardly refuse him after all that he has done for us.”

“Then it's true. Everything that happened in Locksley,” she says, keeping her eyes focused on Robin and doing her best to blind Arthur out of her periphery. “You...are with King Arthur now.”

“ _He_ is with _us_ ,” Robin corrects, getting up to walk over to her. He strokes the little girl's hair, resting a hand on Catraine's arm, “You believed in him once before. He won't let you down again.”

She is not convinced, the guard she keeps up around her is thick and frigid. “What is this favor you are asking of my husband?” Again, she does not look at Arthur. But the large eyes of the little girl in her arms seem fixed on him. Arthur shifts uncomfortably.

“We just have a few questions that need answering.”

“Concerning what?” Brom asks.

“The steward,” says Robin, taking his seat once more. His tone slips from business to conversational, another tactic Arthur remembers him using years ago. To ease tension and encourage compliance. He adds as an afterthought, “He hasn't tried to collect you again, has he?”

“No,” says Brom, reaching out to beckon his wife closer, “We moved here from Clun, then...well...I suppose his mind has been occupied with trying to catch bigger fish.” He nods to Arthur as he takes his little girl into his arms, “I suppose I have you to thank you for that.”

“My pleasure...” says Arthur wryly, leaning back against the edge of their dining table.

Brom situates his daughter onto his lap, “But I don't expect we'll be safe for long.”

“Where will you go?” Robin asks.

“We can't cross any borders, what with Cenred's land to the south, Camelot to the west, and The Perilous Lands to the north. Our only option seems to be trying our hand at Mercia's seaboard. See if we can't wait things out there.”

It didn't seem right, putting Camelot among the same lot as Escetir and The Perilous Lands. It has and always will be a place where Arthur wants people to be able to turn to for refuge, but Brom is not mistaken. If he crossed the border with the current legislation in tact, he and his family would only be on the run once again. And, as he learned with his father, no matter the intention, exceptions cannot be made on an individual basis. Just. Fairness. Equality. If one person cannot wield magic in Camelot then no one can.

“Your help is bringing us one step closer to our ultimate goal,” Robin says, “If we can achieve it, you and your family won't have long to wait.”

“What is your goal?” Catraine asks, pulling up a stool to sit beside her husband.

“I made a vow to a friend--” Arthur begins.

“Marian,” Brom nods, “Yes, she was the first to apologize on your behalf.”

Arthur can only stare at him a moment, taken aback by the realization that Marian had already tried to right his wrongs. From the very start, she was actively working toward his success. “Y-yes...um...” he tries to realign his thoughts, “I promised that--”

“To put it simply,” says Robin, “We want to put someone better on Mercia's throne. The thing is...something has come up and we need to make sure it won't turn our efforts into a suicide mission.”

“Robin said you have some knowledge of magical artifacts?” Merlin says, finally deciding it is his turn to join the conversation.

“That's right,” Brom throws a glance Arthur's way, undoubtedly looking for his disapproval, but Arthur does his best to keep a neutral face. “What sort of artifact are we talking about?”

“A pair of bangles,” he says, and Arthur isn't entirely convinced Merlin remembers the details of them given they were seen amidst a flurry of mayhem. “Silver...etched with leaves and vines. They had a few gems on them, but had one large diamond in the middle. Black, I think.”

Brom studies Merlin in silence before saying, “You think? No. You're far more certain than that, aren't you? You _know_. Because you've been thinking about them. Ever since you saw them. The image of them is burnt into your memory, isn't it? That's what they want.”

“You know what they are then?” Arthur asks, trying to divert the conversation away from the unnerving notion that inanimate objects can have desires.

“I'm sure there are many bangles that look like you described, but only one pair has reason to worry you. So, yes. I know what they are. What I don't know is why you are asking about them. They are the only pair of their kind still in existence, and as far as I know they are safe--”

“The steward has them now,” Merlin interrupts. “He stole them from Marian.”

Brom mutters something beneath his breath, unwrapping one arm from around his daughter to reach up and rub his forehead, “Are you absolutely certain about that?”

“What is it?” Robin asks. “What are they?”

“The Cuffs of Diraddiad. Harmless in the right hands. Devastating in the wrong ones.” He looks between the three of them, “If Lord Vaisey is successful in his endeavor to use them...I fear the difficulty of fulfilling your vow may have just increased tenfold. ”

“What do they do?” Merlin presses as Arthur's stomach twists into knots, knowing without a doubt that they are, in fact, in the wrong hands.

“They were originally designed to relieve a witch or warlock of their powers,” he says. “It was a drastic measure taken to avoid persecution during The Great Purge.” His eyes meet Arthur's first before looking to the other two in the room as well. “Very few truly wanted to be rid of their gifts, so they were made to be enticing.”

Arthur's brow begins to knit together as the words sink in, “Why then...would they also have that effect on Merlin?” All eyes in the room turn to Merlin, who remains focused on Brom.

Brom is very careful in choosing his words, “Because...as with all things in life, there is a balance that must be maintained. A dichotomy spinning in perfect unison. A life is given, a life must be taken. One's magic is taken, to another it is given. You see?”

“Wait...wait...” Robin leans his elbows forward onto his knees, squeezing his eyes shut while he processes this. “So if Vaisey has them, and he has no magic to give, that means he's planning to...take?”

Brom nods, filling his daughter's face with glee as he reveals the tiny wooden rabbit, handing it over to her eager hands,“The steward is going to turn himself into a sorcerer.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

The room is flattened with this sudden drop of insight. Merlin had hoped once the initial shock of Brom's words had subsided that they would be able to come to a swift resolution, a plan of action, and the ravenous pulse of dread spiraling through their veins would falter as quickly as the pain in his leg had when doused with dragon's breath. But the small cottage stays silent even minutes later. Nothing needs to be said. A cry of outrage or shock would have done little good, and the two men accompanying Merlin are more concerned with achieving results than dwelling on emotions.

Robin, still seated on the fireside bench, taps the end of his bow on the floor between his feet, squinting down at it with a tightened jaw that is certain to break if he concentrates any harder. And across the room, Arthur has resigned to sitting at the kitchen table with Catraine, where he rubs his forehead, coaxing a solution to the forefront of his mind.

“There must be something we can do,” Arthur finally says, trying to call upon reason, “Some bit of leverage. A chink in the spell's armor.”

But the deepening frown on the sorcerer's face does not show the same optimism. He shakes his head, “I'm afraid all you can do now is hope that the steward's notorious need for instant satisfaction drives him to rush this process.”

“What do you mean?” asks Merlin.

Brom winces before situating his daughter, eager to play with her new toy, into a more comfortable position on his lap. “The participants,” he says, “both of them, must put the cuffs on willingly for the transfer of power to work. If he gets too eager, and forces it on the wrist of the one he intends to leech off of, the cuffs will become nothing but decorative. Useless pieces of jewelry.”

Merlin's brows hike at that, “Vaisey's lack of patience might just play in our favor then.” He looks to Arthur for his thoughts.

“If it doesn't?” Arthur shifts to sit taller in his chair. “I'm not willing to bet our lives on the flaws of another man. There has to be a way to stop him. A counter-spell, maybe. Some enchantment or--”

Merlin watches Arthur closely as he talks about magic in terms of being something that could almost be mistaken as advantageous. It simply never happens. And yet, as soon as the words start to tumble from Arthur's mouth, Merlin can think of nothing he would rather do than sit and share in a conversation with his king – his friend – about that part of him that is rooted so deeply into his being, yet never spoken of. One casual conversation. The very idea, of course, is all but ridiculous.

“--a ritual to stop the transfer.”

“You think it's that simple?” Brom says. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but for a man who has fought in a war against people of magic all his life, you know very little about magic itself.”

“I know enough.”

“Clearly not,” he says as he lifts his daughter, her nose now scrunching and twitching as she flies her bunny through the air, and sets her on the floor to send towards her mother. She hops away, her eyes fixated on her feet. “Some magic cannot simply be reversed or overpowered. It has laws of its own it must abide by.”

“Laws that include the balance of nature,” Arthur says with a shake of his head. “I've heard it said before. You said it yourself only moments ago, it's a double-edged sword. Death for life, the draining energy to emit energy. If this sort of magic can be done, then there must be a way to make it undone. We just need to figure out what that way is.”

The corner of Brom's mouth twitches briefly upwards, but it is Catraine who speaks as she scoops her bunny-hybrid of a daughter into her arms, “I believe you've underestimated him, dear.”

“It would seem so,” Brom says, studying Arthur another moment before leaning back to prop his foot up onto his knee, “You know far more than you let on. The result of a personal quest for enlightenment rather than knowledge bestowed to you by your father, I'd imagine.”

Arthur gathers his words carefully, “My father chose to overlook and remain ignorant of many things. Things that I can't afford to.”

Brom releases a genuine smile, a new light rising to his eyes. He glances past Arthur to his wife before coming to rest his gaze back on the young king,“Good for you, son.”

There are many times Merlin finds himself proud of his king; during banquets and ceremonies, relaying beautifully woven words to his people, while rallying his men and leading with courage despite fear into a future that is hazy. It is all grand and admirable. But nothing will ever stir Merlin's delight for his friend like the witnessing of Arthur taking one more step out from under his father's shadow, however difficult it may be, and seizing his values as a lump of clay to be remolded upon his own discernment. It is an evolution Merlin's hope hinges on.

“Unfortunately,” Brom promptly continues, clearly just as uncomfortable with tender regards as Arthur is, “all of that doesn't change the fact that once the cuffs are on, there's no known way of stopping or reverting the transfer of magic.”

“Marian,” Arthur says, glancing absently out the window, and Merlin follows his gaze. The town streets are beginning to stir with more and more life as their time here passes. “Surely she would know something of them. They were originally in her possession, after all.”

“They never should have been,” Robin says, his words thrown a little too quickly and too pointedly towards his old friend sitting at the table across the room. It is the first time the bandit has spoken since the function of the cuffs has been revealed. Merlin thought he was lost in thought, processing the realities of their situation, searching for answers, but it hasn't been concentration alone that set his face hard as stone. It is something that runs much deeper, and makes Merlin feel as though the rope binding the three of them together on this mission might just begin to fray if Robin does not resist the pull of the bitter memories trying to drag him under once again.

“Robin...” Merlin hopes his voice alone can serve as a reminder of the things the bandit confided in him before the dawn broke. He gains Robin's attention, but Arthur responds too quickly to allow Merlin to keep it for long.

“There is nothing we can do about that now,” Arthur says, his voice tight as if reciting a formal litany, and Merlin is sure he is working hard to restrain a sharp tongue. He rises from his seat to pace, attempting to remain nonchalant, but the tension in his body is palpable. “I suggest you leave it be.”

“Very few even know of their existence,” Brom interjects, allowing no time for drama to unfold between the two men, “let alone their complexities. I doubt she is privy to all of its fundamentals.”

“What about the artisan who made them?” Merlin says, drawing his focus from the silent, simmering feud to the middle-aged sorcerer. “The Purge was not all that long ago. If he's still alive--”

“I'm afraid he's not,” says Brom. “Lost to the pyre.”

He does not look at Arthur when he says it, presumably trying to spare him from what could be construed as an accusatory glance, but his courtesy cannot blind them from what they know in their guts to be true. It was Uther who lit the fire beneath the artisan's feet.

“If nothing else, we at least saw that one coming,” Robin says.

Brom suddenly sits up straighter, a thought dawning on him, “There is a part of him that does live on though.”

“A part of him?” Arthur asks, exchanging a worrisome look with Merlin. One that conveys his imagination running rampant, although Merlin cannot quite know what he is conjuring in his mind – a preserved eyeball that still wobbles on its root? Or maybe a disembodied voice expelled from the artisan's gathered ashes.

“He was a writer,” says Brom. The tension in Arthur's shoulders slacken. “Had tomes filled with his life works and studies. If his things were seized along with him, then perhaps they'd be--”

“--in the vaults of Camelot.” Arthur says, seeming to grow in height with renewed enthusiasm.

“Burning people until they're nothing, while preserving their artifacts in the safest place in all of the five kingdoms,” Robin says with a nod. “I'll give you this, Wart, your father knew his priorities.”

“You mock him, but it is people that kill. Not things.”

“No, it is ignorance and hate and pride that kills,” says Robin more forcefully as he pushes himself to his feet and takes a few strides in Arthur's direction. “All things that Uther himself was drunk on day after day.”

“And he is dead! What more do you want from him?” Arthur blinks, scanning the others in the room, his focus finally coming to rest on Robin again. He takes a step towards him, meeting him halfway, and lowers his voice. “You, and everyone here, spout their anger at me as if I can change what happened. I can't. Yet I still have the wrongs of my father haunting my every step. There's no getting away from it. I know what he's done. I am aware. What I don't know, is why it has to be brought up every conversation I enter into.”

“Because,” says Robin, “he isn't haunting your footsteps, you're walking in his, and we all just want to make sure you don't follow too closely.”

Arthur lets out a humorless laugh, “Yes, your loathing is in my best interest, is it? Well if that's the case, then you had better know...hostility won't convince me of anything, Hood.”

The look in the bandit's eyes, shadowed by the knit in his brow, yet alight with passion, slowly gives way at his old friend's words, which have seemingly cut through the bonds tethering Robin's sour attitude to the past. He takes a step back.

“I'll steal them.”

“What?”

“The bloody cuffs,” says Robin. “I'll go to the castle, steal them if it's not too late. And if it is, we'll get Marian and Sir Leon out, and get to Camelot, yeah?”

“If it's too late, you boys will never make it out of that castle alive,” Brom says.

“Then it'll be a good day to die,” says Robin.

Merlin lifts a finger, “Can I weigh in on that?”

Arthur's lips begin to move, offering a snarky retort to be sure, but the words are lost on Merlin's ears. Adjusting his focus from his two companions in front of the window to the small band of men that have gathered outside of it. One raises a small shaft of wood to his mouth, and before Merlin can even fully understand what it is, he springs from his seat.

“Arthur!” His outstretched hands find their way to Arthur's shoulders, the two tripping over one another's feet as they stumble back and land in a heap on the ground just as something whizzes through the air and embeds itself into the wall with a gentle thud. The little girl screams. A chair scrapes against the floor as Catraine jumps to her feet, and a hardy knock sounds at the front door.

“Brom! We know he's in there!” a man yells.

Arthur and Merlin untangle themselves, scrambling to their feet. Arthur stares at Merlin as though he has grown a second nose. It is only when he glances down at what is supposed to be Merlin's injured leg that the young warlock realizes his king's shock is not the result of Merlin saving his life, but a working leg. There is no time for questions.

“Looks like they've come to collect their reward,” Robin says, yanking the dart free from the wall to inspect it.

“Out of sight. Now!” Brom whispers harshly, waving them all away from the door. “Catraine, go.” She starts to protest, but Arthur – throwing one last glance towards Melrin's leg – hurries to her side. He ushers her and her daughter towards the safety of the other room.

“No!” The little girl yells, only to be shushed by her mother. Her tiny hand reaches for the table they have just abandoned, “Bunny!”

Robin grabs Merlin by the back of his collar before he can fetch the girl's toy for her, and pulls him behind the door as Brom opens it, the sorcerer keeping a collective face. It is a talent that only comes naturally to those who have had to lie for their lives. He cannot see the man outside, but his large shadow falls across the floor of the cottage, his hands wielding nothing but a spade. Beside him, Robin begins to catch onto the same fact as he inspects the dart he still holds between his fingers; it's the same used to sedate wolves prowling livestock, so they can be safely approached and killed. These are not trained bounty hunters they're dealing with. These are farmers. And they are hungry.

The man shifts his weight, adjusting the grip on his spade in a way that is meant to be menacing, but is filled with an uncertainty Merlin has seen from nearly every new knight training with Arthur. They are uncomfortable with their new weapon, nervous to unleash its judgment upon another.

“Who shot that?” Brom asks, his voice demanding.

“It's nothing personal, Brom. Just hand the Pendragon boy over and we'll be on our way.”

“Nothing personal?” Brom edges closer to the threshold. The man adjusts his grip again. “You dare to come to _my_ home, assault _my_ family, and now you tell me it is nothing personal?”

Sensing motion behind him, Merlin jerks around to find Arthur reemerging from the adjacent room. He stays low to avoid the windows as he creeps back towards them, stopping only to lift a finger to his lips, urging Merlin to stay quiet. He starts to motion toward the back door, a perfect escape back into the woods, but before he can even finish his suggestion, the same door flies open with a thunderous crack.

Three men pour into the small house, the first with an iron sickle. Its curved blade, newly sharpened, bent on spilling Arthur's blood. Drawing his sword, Arthur easily blocks the swing, but where Arthur has form on his side, these men have the unquenchable thirst of desperation. The man uses the hook of his blade to redirect Arthur's, opening the young king up for a blow to the face.

Brom occupies the man at the door, and Robin draws his knife, immediately directing his efforts toward the second intruder. He ducks the swing of a pitchfork, grabbing the man's shoulders, and thrusting his knee up into his gut. But before Merlin, too, can spring from his hiding place behind the door, it swings viciously on its hinges as Brom and his opponent fall against it, throwing Merlin into the kitchen shelf, and forcing the air from his lungs. He crumples at its base, coughing to regain control of his breaths and consequently his entire body.

Through the haze, Merlin can see the third intruder near the back of the room. He does not participate in the fight as actively as the others. Instead, he stalks through the scuffle, watching with his eyes trained on Camelot's king. His temples drip with sweat. His hands shake as they poise a dart identical to the first one in front of his mouth, waiting for the opportune moment to shoot.

Then it comes. Arthur dodges the sickle's slash, grabbing the man's wrist and forcing him back against the wall where he pins him, “No one needs to die here. Drop it!” The broad width of his shoulders becomes a target few could miss, even for those nearly immobile with the state of their nerves. The sweating farmer takes a deep breath before squeezing his eyes shut tight and pressing the dart blower to his lips.

“ _Tarraignan a_ _ì_ _s_...” Merlin whispers from his place on the floor. The man suddenly gasps, his eyes shooting open wide as he begins to choke. He coughs once. The small barrel drops to the floor at his feet. Twice. His hands claw at his neck. Three times. He stumbles backward, running into the end table and knocking its contents to the ground – the books, Merlin's discarded crutch, and Vaisey's notice, which glides through the air, sweeping back and forth until it comes to a gentle landing in the middle of the house. He staggers to the ground before his body goes limp, a deep sleep taking hold.

The clang of metal sounds from behind Merlin, followed by the thump of a limp body and the floor beneath him shutters. Over his shoulder, the open door obscures much of what is going on, but Merlin can see the man with the spade lying at Brom's feet. Or the man who _used_ to have the spade might be more accurate as the spade now hangs at the sorcerer's side. His deep voice begins to float through the air, and though he cannot see Brom's face, the lack of echo tells Merlin that he is directing his words outside, “ _Fanacht áit a bhfuil tú...fanacht áit a bhfuil tú!_ ”

Merlin scrambles to his feet, risking a glance out the window. The small mob that had collected slinks closer to the house now at varying distances, but one by one, as Brom's words continue to tumble out, their footsteps slowly cease as if caught in molasses until rooted to the ground.

“ _Fanacht áit a bhfuil tú...”_

With the outside becoming less of a threat, Merlin shifts his attention back inside, turning just in time to witness the disarming of Arthur's opponent before Arthur delivers a final punch beneath the man's chin, knocking his head back against the wall. The man's body slides down the wall and Arthur stoops down with it, making sure the fall doesn't harm him any further and taking a moment to check his pulse. He stands back up and kicks the sickle out of the man's reach, in case he should decide to wake prematurely.

“Enjoying the show, Merlin?” Arthur says, coming over to pat his shoulder. “Sit down. Put your feet up. Go on, don't let us get in your way.”

“ _Fanacht áit_ _a bh--”_

Brom's incantation is stifled by a sound that passes in an instant, but is forever engrained into Merlin's ears. He has heard it before; a deadly whirl punctuated with the moist tearing of flesh. Arthur, also recognizing the sound, lunges into the doorway to catch Brom's body as it gives way. The butt of an axe sticks out from the center of his torso. Though the sorcerer is too big to hold up, Arthur manages to ease his fall, sinking down to the floor with him.

“Brom?” Arthur says as he tries to situate the sorcerer more comfortably against his own chest. “Brom!”

Merlin quickly shuts the front door as much as he can to protect them from anymore attacks, but the body of the man who first knocked blocks their way. The young warlock lets it be for now and stoops down in front of Brom, the crimson stain that surrounds the axe embedded in his chest grows, claiming the once pure white tunic thread by thread.

“Brom?” Merlin leans forward to cup the side of his face. The sorcerer mumbles something, but even this close, it is difficult to make out his words over the struggle between Robin and the last man standing. Robin fights more frantically than ever, his eyes sweeping between his current battle and his fallen friend. He grits his teeth, and with one final effort, throws his elbow into the man's temple, kicking his slackened body into the dining table, which topples over, sending everything that once sat on top scattering across the ground.

Rolling head over tail, the tiny wooden rabbit Brom had carved for his daughter comes bouncing and bounding over the floor planks toward them, rolling as it loses momentum until it is stopped only by the mire of the crimson pool seeping out from beneath its maker. Merlin's eyes flutter to keep their clarity and he shifts his gaze to Arthur, whose solemn eyes only look back at him.

“Go,” Robin says as he hurries over. “There's no time. I'll stay with him.”

“No,” says Arthur. “I won't just leave you here. Who knows how many more will come? Brom, Catraine...their daughter. I can't abandon them now. Not...not like this.”

Robin goes down on one knee, gently helping to shift Brom off of Arthur and onto the floor. He locks eyes with Camelot's king to make sure Arthur hears his every word, “Do you know what he is doing right now? With his last moments? He's not hugging his wife, not coddling his child. He's keeping the men outside at bay. For you. For us all. Because in saving you, he's choosing to have faith that you will save everyone in this kingdom like you said you would.”

“Arthur, Robin's right,” says Merlin softly. “We need to get you back to camp.”

“I'll stay with him,” Robin says again, clearing his throat as his voice threatens to waver. “And see to his family. But you have to leave. Now. I can handle this.” Arthur says nothing to that, only nods as he picks his sword up off the floor and rises to his feet, sliding the blade into his belt. Merlin follows his lead, but Robin speaks again before they can take a single step toward the back door, “Remember who has done this for you, Wart. And who is sacrificing a life of watching his family grow so that you may live.” Arthur is once again silenced, left to stare down at the bandit as he says his goodbyes. It is Merlin who has to coax him along, and get him moving.

They step over the rubble and the unconscious men, taking special care to dispose of the weapons on their way should they decide to wake, but something tells Merlin that if Arthur is no longer there, these farmers will no longer prove to be a threat. It's the least they can hope for.

As soon as they cross over the threshold, they take off running for the cover of the woods, but just as they ascend the ridge and prepare to pass beyond the tree line, they are both frozen to their spots on the ground. Not by an incantation, or any magic for that matter, but by the solitary shrill cry of Catraine from within her cottage below. Arthur pivots and takes a step as if to return, but Merlin presses a hand to his chest to stop him.

“Those men will wake any minute, Arthur, we need to get to safety.” Merlin guides Arthur back towards the forest with a tug on his sleeve, and the two begin to push their way through the underbrush. The branches and leaves scrape at Merlin's skin and pull at his clothes. He squints his eyes to protect them from the thorns, but he doesn't even get a chance to reopen them before it happens.

“Merlin!” It's Arthur.

There is a sharp pinch to the side of Merlin's neck before he falls flat against the hard round.

* * *

Walking through the halls of Nottingham Castle, Sir Guy rolls his shoulder then his neck; the first to once again test that it has been fully healed by Morgana's efforts, and the second to try and expel the crick that has been plaguing him since he roused from unconsciousness that morning, only to find himself still lying on the floor of her hovel. He would be offended to have been left discarded there like a soiled article of clothing were it not for the pillow he found positioned beneath his head. She put it there. And that fact draws the corner of his mouth up into something resembling a grin. Not long ago he had warned her not to use her powers on him, and although it was necessary to save his life, she attended his wishes best she could – even to the point where she would choose to leave him on the ground rather than use her magic to lift his cumbersome weight onto the bed.

“No! No, let me go!”

Sir Guy's frown returns. He knows that feminine voice, and though he has sworn to care little for its distress, his curiosity gets the better of him. Hurrying around the bend up ahead, he spots two guards attempting to wrangle a feisty Marian.

He lets out a sigh and reduces his haste to a casual stride as he makes his way down the hall toward her, “You are under house arrest, Marian. Do you understand what that means? The leniency we are showing you?” The lecture he had every intention of continuing on with, reminding her that she could be locked away in the cells with her father, lose what little freedom she has, is silenced by the look on her face when she turns to him. Is that relief? A deep crease forms between his brows.

“Sir Guy, please,” she tries to go to him, but her arm is caught in the firm grasp of one of the guards. “You must make them see reason. He's just a boy. You must stop them. Please...”

With a flick of his hand, the two guards are dismissed. They release Marian rather roughly, causing her to stumble, but she uses its momentum to get to Guy quicker. Before she can offer another useless plea, Guy checks her eyes for clarity.

“You are doing yourself no favors,” he says. “You took quite a blow to the head the other night. If you are not cautious--”

“There is no time for caution,” Marian says. “Lord Vaisey and that witch are with Leofrick as we speak. Please, we must hurry.” She whisks past him, and though he turns with her, he makes no move to follow, only grabs her arm just before she is out of reach.

“You mistake me for an ally.”

She whips back around to look at him, her eyes as frenzied as the unruly curls that surround her face, “You mistake yourself for a villain, Sir Guy. Do you even know what they are doing to him?”

“I'm inclined to a certain guess.”

“Then if you will not go with me out of concern for a little boy, at least allow us to go so that you might investigate the nature of their intentions.” Her resistance against his grip lessens. “Or would you rather remain serving as nothing but the brawn of their scheme?”

Sir Guy rolls his eyes to stare at a nondescript point on the nearby wall, trying to decide whether this petite woman in front of him is attempting to use manipulation or the simple truth to woo him into her will. He shifts his gaze back to her, “I will drag you out of there myself if you prove to be insufferable. Is that clear?” The muscles of her face begin to relax, bringing a small spark to her eyes, and her victory threatens to emerge as a smile. “Don't,” he warns her, not wanting to be a part of it.

Marian shakes her head, “Thank you...”

He releases her with a sigh, “That's no better.”

* * *

They find the door to Leofrick's room void of any Nottingham soldiers. It is strange enough to send Guy's eyes scanning the halls for any threats – not so arrogant as to think Hood and his men can't weasel their way in undetected. Again. But when he looks to the woman beside him, she appears just as confused by their lack of presence.

Stopping with his hand on the handle, he glances around once more before pushing it open. No sooner does a crack between the double-doors to the boy's chamber appear than a hand wielding a knife juts out, pressing its tip beneath Guy's chin. The man in black freezes, only moving enough to tilt his head back and alleviate the pressure threatening to draw blood.

Looking down his nose, he can see the bulging eye of his steward staring back up at him. He cocks an eyebrow at him, “My lord?”

“Gisbourne! So you're alive, after all.” He lowers his knife. “I can't decide if I'm relieved or disappointed. Come in.” The steward starts to open the door wider, but he groans when he sees who accompanies him. “Marian? Gisbourne, how many times do I have to tell you not to drag the killjoy along with you?”

“She's the boy's caretaker, I thought she might be of use,” he says. He barely steps into the room before Marian shoves past his shoulder.

“What are you doing to him!?” She demands, lurching forward, but Sir Guy – anticipating this reaction – snatches her around the waist.

Vaisey slams the door behind them, “Shut her up, Gisbourne!”

Guy clamps his free hand over her mouth, looking onward to the bed where Leofrick lies in a deep sleep. Morgana stands over him, a hand pressed gently to his forehead, whispering with her eyes closed in concentration.

“ _Lig sé i, a ligean dó scanradh, a ligean dó díobháil_ ,” she says, her voice rising with every word, and Marian struggles more ferociously in his arms. “ _Cé aon uair amháin go maith, olc anois i do radharc. Ndeor sé, cithréimeach sé, tá Arthur Pendragon do eagla is mó..._ ”

“Argh!” Guy cries as the sharp edges of Marian's teeth dig into the flesh of his hand. She pushes out of his hold, diving to Leofrick's side, but with one effortless swing of Morgana's hand, Marian is struck backward, landing unceremoniously at Guy's feet. He pulls the toe of his boot out from under her. “What is this?” he asks the steward. “I thought we wanted the boy alive for now.”

“Yes, that's right,” says Lord Vaisey. “But I thought...in the mean time...why not use him to our advantage? It'll help to liven things up, should the need arise, and given the reputation of King Blondie Pendragon, I would say that need will most certainly arise.”

“What have you done to Leofrick?” Marian demands, picking herself up off the floor.

Vaisey sighs, “Did I not just answer that question, Gisbourne? Honestly, how do you endure a single moment with this woman?” Guy only shifts his weight away from the steward in response.

“I assure you, no harm has come to him,” Morgana's piercing green eyes lock onto Marian as she abandons her place at the bedside to approach them. “Your precious king is safe...though I'm afraid I cannot say the same for your _other_ precious king.”

“That enchantment,” Marian says, flicking her eyes towards Leofrick, “what are its effects?”

“In time, you shall see for yourself,” says Morgana with the faintest grin, but it quickly fades, her brow creasing as she feigns concern and rests a hand on Marian's shoulder. “But don't you worry, my lady, the wait won't be long now.”

Marian levels her glare onto the High Priestess, rolling her shoulder defiantly out from under her touch, and hurries over to Leofrick, where she lowers herself down onto the edge of the bed. Her gentle hand brushes the hair from his forehead, where she leaves a kiss.

“He won't wake for some time,” says Morgana. “I wouldn't bother trying to rouse him.”

“Ooh, Gisbourne, there it is,” Lord Vaisey says, “that tingling again.”

The man in black's lip immediately curls at his steward's unsavory choice of words, honestly hesitant to ask, “A...tingling, my lord?”

“Right here.” Vaisey taps at his temple. “The incessant itching of something I'm forgetting to remember.” It is a game the steward loves to play. Too often. He hasn't forgotten anything, of course, but he's convinced that pretending to will draw everyone's undivided attention until he graciously abates their tender nerves by revealing his next diabolical move. Too theatrical an approach, if one were to ask Guy.

“I'm sure your memory will serve you soon enough, my lord” says Sir Guy, refusing to take part in his amusement today and causing the steward to frown like a child thwarted. He gestures to the door as he meets Morgana's eyes, “My lady?”

She smiles faintly, casting one last glance at the steward before heading towards the chamber doors, “Yes, I do believe my work is done here.”

Guy rests a hand on her back to guide her out, but upon opening the door, they find three men standing in their way; two guards, escorting Marian's battered father. Fingers snap from behind them.

“Yes, of course!” Lord Vaisey says as though he's suddenly remembered. Guy and Morgana part to allow the three to enter into the room. “The rest of the party has arrived. I can't believe it slipped my mind that they were coming.”

“What is this, my lord?” Guy asks. For the first time in a long while, he starts to get the feeling that the steward has not confided all of his plans in him. He usually never spares details so that he can avoid doing as much work himself as possible, leaving it to Guy to pick up the slack, but this time something is different. Actions that don't make sense building and converging in a way that seems all to methodical. Marian, though sentenced to death, is free to roam the halls. In doing so she hears of the possible mistreatment of her charge and comes running, just in time to be graced with the presence of Edward – whose only purpose here is to keep her in line. Lord Vaisey knew she would be here.

“Father?” Marian slowly rises to her feet.

“Marian...” his voice croaks as he lifts his head to look at her. His weight is kept erect only by the hands of the guards lodged beneath his arms, his toes dragging behind him.

“Father!” Marian rushes forward, but once again Guy finds himself serving as her human bonds. He grabs one of her arms before taking a secure hold of the other as well, the intense tremble wracking her body pulsates against his palms. “Let him go!” she demands, her desperation creeping up to unravel her usual silken voice.

“Tempting,” Vaisey muses, “but no.”

“Can't you see he is unwell?”

“Marian, it's alright,” Edward says with an encouraging nod.

“Is that supposed to convince me?” Vaisey clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Health is of no concern to me when death itself is in his near future.”

“Please...please, you cannot punish him for my crimes. He is guilty of nothing apart from having me as his daughter, and if that is enough to warrant the taking of a man's life--”

“Oh, I assure you, it is,” he says, pulling the jeweled dagger back out from his belt, twirling it between his fingers. He stalks closer to Edward, his voice more distant, “It most certainly is...”

“My lord,” Guy interjects, recognizing the unmistakable glint of hunger in the steward's eyes, “The executions are scheduled to be held tomorrow. All of them.”

“Yes, well, dear daddy's has been moved forward. A prelude, you might say, to tomorrow's festivities,” his eyes scan the others in the room. “The death of an old man will hardly be missed. It happens every day. The execution of Lady Marian and a Knight of Camelot, however? Now there is the spectacle to draw the crowds.”

“You are vile!” Marian spits, pulling against Guy's grip on her, and there is a fleeting moment where the man in black rather contemplates releasing her, if only to see what she does to the steward.

“Says the woman hiking her hem for a Pendragon,” he wags the blade of his knife in her direction. “You have little room to talk, missy. Now...shall we?”

“No...”

His knuckles turn white as he grips the hilt of his dagger more tightly, raising it into the air. And in that moment, Edward's face is at peace as he looks upon his little girl.

“No!” she screams, and from the staggered breathes seizing her body, Guy knows that the tears she had been keeping locked away behind her strength have broken loose.

“Oh,” Lord Vaisey says as if recalling an item left off a grocery list. He lowers his knife and turns to the now weeping girl, though whether her tears are ones of fear, anticipation, or relief, Guy cannot begin to guess. Edward closes his eyes, a single tear trailing down his own cheek. “I almost forgot...there is a way you can spare your father's life.”

He waits for her to respond, but her emotions have locked up her throat. She only shakes her head in confusion.

“How, you ask? Well, it's quite simple really,” Vaisey says, continuing to twirl the knife between his fingers. “All you have to do...is stop me.”

“What?” She finally chokes out after a long bout of silence.

“Oh, come come...we all know you have it in you.”

“Do what you will with me,” Edward says, “but do not toy with my daughter.”

“Ah, but she's such a fun toy.”

“I...I can't,” Marian says. And she's right. Still recovering from the blow Morgana had given her, Guy can see and feel her spirit willing her to fight, but the strength that one relies on to follow through has yet to return to her. She may have bested him before, but she would not be able to do so today. Not him, and certainly not three other men and a High Priestess.

“Are you certain of that?” the steward asks with a face that has suddenly lost all its glee. In one sentence, he has gone from a child delighting in stomping on ant hills, to a man teetering on the edge of sanity. He is still foaming with hunger, but not for blood, not for flesh, but for something only he knows will quench this craving.

“Stop this!” Edwards says.

“One flick of your hand,” says the steward, his eyes locked on Marian's. “A few little words uttered with intention...”

Sir Guy furrows his brow, “Magic?” He looks from the steward to Morgana, expecting for his own surprise to be reflected on her face, but she shows no emotion. Her eyes cast down at the floor, where they linger several moments before she decides to take her leave. Her footsteps are silent, she bids no farewell, and drifts unnoticed out the chamber doors. At least, unnoticed to all apart from Guy.

“But I-I don't...I can't do what you ask of me,” she says, barely able to get the words out.

“My lord, I think you are mistaken,” says Guy.

“She's lying, Gisbourne!” the steward shouts as a crimson tide washes over his face. He flies from his place beside Edward, snatching Marian's face tightly in one hand while thrusting the tip of his knife back beneath Sir Guy's chin. He seethes, his saliva speckling their faces, “She is a _liar_!”

“Lord steward, please!” says Edward. “You _are_ mistaken. Leave her be!”

“No, no, I am not mistaken,” he mutters quickly beneath his breath, leveling his crazed eyes on Marian's face as he shifts the blade from Guy's throat to be pressed against her cheek, “I am not _mistaken_! I know! And she will show me...show me!”

“I cannot show you what I am not capable of,” Marian says through gritted teeth, her jaw movement confined by the grasp of the steward. Even through her moment of surprising calm, however, Guy can hear the distress still tugging at the edges of her every word.

“You are refusing my offer?” the steward asks, his teeth also gritted, but for a far different reason. “One little spell, that's all it would have taken to save your daddy, and you refuse me? That is a regret that will not wash away quickly, I assure you of that.” He steps back from Marian, swiping her cheek with a snap of his wrist as he withdraws. She gasps.

Ignoring the blood that begins to trickle down her face, she violently shakes her head, “Don't. Please. I beg of you, my lord...don't...”

Vaisey takes a few steps backward, pointing his blade at Marian, “It is you who wields this dagger, Marian.”

“No, please...”

“Not I.”

“Marian, it will be alright,” Edwards says, drawing his daughter's attention away from the steward, his voice gives way to a whisper. “My sweet girl...”

“Father...”

Vaisey strikes. Guy's eyes snap to the floor. A cry of anguish tears at Marian's throat, clawing its way out and filling the room. It rings in Guy's ears, but it doesn't stop the thump of a body hitting the floor from reaching through to him. He must tighten his hold on Marian's arms as all the muscles in her body seem to suddenly fail her. But when it becomes clear that she no longer wants to be held up, and wrenches her arms loose, Sir Guy grants her freedom. She stumbles forward, landing on her knees next to her father and rolls him over.

“Father!” Her hands rest on his shoulders, trembling and frantic, they find their way to his face, cupping it tenderly. “Father, please! Please...” Her eyes dart across his body, searching for a way to ease his pain as he struggles for breath.

The knife clangs against the floor as Vaisey drops it beside her, “In case you would like to put him out of his misery. A solitary favor he deserves from you, I'd say.” He turns on his heels, snapping for the two guards to follow him out of the chambers, and leaving Sir Guy to watch after the two – soon to be one – prisoner.

“It will be alright,” she says, her voice high and choked, quickly covering his bleeding wound with her hands. “Just like you said, father.”

“No...” He brings a hand up to rest it over hers, sliding them away from his wound, and squeezing them tight.

“But--”

“Just hold m-my hand,” Edward says, the vaguest smile appearing on his face. “When you were a...l-little girl, that is all you wanted...to do, anywhere we went...hold my hand.”

Marian tries to smile for him, but rather than laugh, a small sob escapes her.

“Now t-that is all I want...want from y-you.”

“We can make you better,” she says. “We can get you through this.”

“No...no...” He squeezes his eyes shut as his chest jolts beneath their hands, fighting for air. Then, just like that, the fingers curled lovingly around her hands slowly slacken, and the furrow in Edward's pained brow smooths.

“Father?” She shakes him gently, “Father, wake up. Wake up. Please! Wake--” her sentence surrenders to the grief as she begins weeping over him, her forehead pressed against his. “Father...”

“Marian...” Sir Guy takes a few steps closer, his voice awakening something in her.

“How could you do this?” Her eyes furiously scour the room, intensifying when they lock on the man in black. “How? How could you let this happen!?” She springs to her feet, her bloodied hands seizing his arms, “You coward! How could you just stand by!?” Guy does his best to restrain Marian as she both shoves and pounds her fists against his chest, but he allows her to strike him on several occasions, knowing the only way to stop her would surely hurt her.

“Listen to me! I have no authority over the steward!” he says. “There was nothing I could do! I didn't know, Marian, I didn't know he was going to do this.”

“My father was an innocent man! He was innocent!” She turns to collapse next to Edward again, draping herself over him as she wails into his chest. “I'm sorry, father...I'm so sorry...”

“Marian...” Guy takes another step, something in him drawing him near to her.

“No you just...” she says, “You just leave me alone.” She continues to stare down at her father, cupping his face, willing him to wake, begging him to, pleading with him to forgive her. And though tears continue to stream, there are moments when she seems to start regaining some of her breath, resorting to simply resting head on her father's chest.

Guy moves to her side, stooping down. “Come, Marian,” he says softly, taking her shoulders in an attempt to help her stand. “We should--”

“Don't touch me!” She screams, shoving him roughly away from her. He falls onto all fours, but she continues to shove him. “Don't you touch me! And don't you touch him!” She gets to her feet on her own, driving her hands into Sir Guy's chest as soon as he is able to stand, pushing him towards the door. “Get out! Just get out!”

She does not relent until he stumbles across the threshold, out into the hallway, and the door slams in his face. The click of the lock sounds, followed by Marian's muffled sobs coming through the cracks in the door. He rests a hand on the door frame, and lets out a sigh as he hangs his head.

“Sir Guy!” A guard says, hurrying down the hall towards him.

“Not now,” Guy mutters. He looks down at the door handle, and knows it would be tempting to go back in if she had not locked him out. He drops his hand to his side and starts down the hallway, leaving the guard ignored.

“It's King Arthur!”

Guy stops. He turns, glancing briefly at the door concealing Marian as he approaches the guard, shoving him against the wall, “Shout it a little louder, hmm?” He glances to the door and back again, “What about him?”

“He's been captured,” he says. “The man who holds him prisoner requests a meeting with you to discuss terms of the reward.”

“Where?”

“Here,” he holds out a small, rolled up piece of parchment.

Sir Guy snatches it from his hand. “You may go,” he says as he steps back, releasing the guard, who scurries away like a mouse slipping out from beneath a cat's paw. Guy immediately heads in the opposite direction – towards the stables. Perhaps this day can be redeemed yet.


End file.
